It happened years ago and I can still remember the sense of dread when the worship director snagged my attention, grave and anxious, at the conclusion of the first of three worship services. Strange behavior, coming from a usually cool-headed man. Motioning for me to follow, he quickly strode toward the choir room. This feels ominous, I thought as I hurried after him to the choir room, where I was immediately assaulted by the acrid tang of electrical smoke. My nose stung, my eyes watered, and my heart hammered. Uh oh.

There had to be at least 100 people in the building. Many of them were our senior adults, who preferred the early service to the younger crowd that attended the next two worship services.

A wave of anxiety suffocated all lingering peace from the early service. We have two more services to go! What are we going to do?

So we shut the door and called the fire department. Then we evacuated the building.

I often tell young people looking for a job that they ought to consider working in a restaurant. My first two jobs were restaurant work, and they provided me with invaluable life lessons. Such as: if you want the best service, be the kind of customer you’d like to wait on. And: nobody looks good drunk. But one of the most stressful, and instructive, parts of restaurant life is the steady pace of crisis. Something is always going wrong. Someone is always upset. Some ingredient has always gone bad. Some technology is always malfunctioning. There is always a crisis to contend with. And isn’t that just life in general?

My husband worked with a pastor who used to say to his congregation: “I know this to be true - either you’re going through something, you’ve just been through something, or you’re about to go through something.” Life often feels like a series of crises and you’re lucky if you catch a breather between them.

In my spiritual life, I’ve noticed that I have two responses to crises. Sometimes a crisis sends me straight to God, and I burrow into all the spiritual practices I know and wait for the storm to pass, safe in the company of God. Other times (ahem, much of the time), a crisis sends me into Go-Mode, where I make a plan with lots of lists and check off one item at a time until I have solved the problem and the crisis has passed.

On the day of the Almost Great Fire, I was in Go-Mode. The firefighters arrived, and boy did they arrive - all 8 trucks, a couple of ambulances, and the battalion chief in tow. This caused no small alarm among the folks coming for the next service - which, thankfully, was held in another, adjacent building.

I watched all 500 firefighters file into the evacuated building, dressed in their full gear. Really, it was only about 20 of them, but it felt like every firefighter in a 30 miles radius responded to this call. Talk about responsiveness! But it only increased my anxiety. My mind whirled with contingency plans and checklists. We were scheduled to have another service in this evacuated building in an hour and a half. Much needed to be done if we could not worship in there. Within a few minutes, I had a contingency plan worked out, I gave directions to staff, and off I went to the service next door.

The thing about Go-Mode is it’s hard to snap out of. As we sang in worship, my brain was working through lists. As I led my pieces, my mind was on the contingency plans swirling in my head. As my colleague preached, I was distracted by all the what-ifs and I-need-to-do’s clamoring for my attention - even though I knew my capable staff was handling, along with all those firefighters. Still, I had no room for worship in my heart because I was so consumed by the threat of fire in my church.

I now look back upon this experience as a great spiritual teacher for my anxious heart. How often do I have no room for God’s transcendence in my life because I’m so consumed by the fires all around me? How often is the Church tempted to live indefinitely in Go-Mode instead of pausing to rest, trusting in the shelter of God?

It didn’t take long for the firefighters to identify the problem and resolve it. The motion sensor panel was the source of the smoke. The building was deemed safe. Our third and final worship service carried on as planned.

Two hours after discovering the acrid smoke, there I was: holding a baby above a baptismal font, baptizing a new sister in Christ. Traces of the pungent aroma hung thick in the air, but it was nothing compared to the soft white fabric of the baby’s family heirloom gown, her parent’s joyful reverence, the congregation’s expectant hush as the sacrament was given and received once again in that holy space, among that faithful people.

The anxiety of the morning faded to the shadows of my periphery as I marveled at the grace of God who meets us in moments such as these. As the baptismal waters splashed I rested in this holy breather between crises, this moment of rightness, a reminder that even when the smoke of life’s fires grows thick and unruly, God is still there.

If working in restaurants helped me normalize the steady pace of crisis in life, then working in churches helps me trust that there is no crisis where God is not present. There is no fire that will keep God away.

I glimpsed the beauty of the Church once again on that Almost Great Church Fire morning. I saw God wading through the smoke of life’s crises, reaching out a hand to steady the Go-Mode within us, inviting us to notice that in the breaths between crises, God is baptizing all of us with grace and new life and new strength, giving us one another to lean upon.

The Church is still beautiful, not because it is still standing - smoke stains and all - but because God is still standing in our midst. Smoke stains and all.

With all its scandals, failures, and political schemes, it is still a beautiful Church. Be hopeful. God is still here.

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BIG NEWS!

I have written a children’s book, and it is available for preorder! It will soon be available in local bookstores, on Amazon, and on my publishers online store at www.swinghighbooks.com.

Why Do Bad Things Happen to Good Sheep is a rhyming children’s picture book, written for children (and their grown ups) to address children’s deep theological questions in the wake of crisis, suffering, or grief.

I wrote it after struggling to find the right words to help a child with his big theological questions after he was terribly injured in a terrible accident. It’s a story of the Good Shepherd assuring his sheep of his enduring presence and love, no matter what.

This book is a resource for parents, grandparents, foster parents, chaplains, pastors, teachers, child life specialists, and anyone who is caring for a child who has experienced suffering and needs to be grounded in the good news of the Good Shepherd.

You can read the snyopsis and preorder it here. I am giving 10% of my profit to the Methodist Home for Children in North Carolina, an organization that is faithfully caring for children in seasons of suffering, helping them trust in the Good Shepherd.

“Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins. Offer hospitality to one another without grumbling.” 1 Peter 4:8-9

“Hospitality is not to change people, but to offer them space where change can take place.” Henri Nouwen

The church key felt heavier than it looked when placed in my outstretched palm. It wasn’t the demanding sort of heavy, like an overflowing load of laundry or a too-full backpack. Instead it was a comforting heavy, like a weighted blanket after a stressful day.

“So you always know you can come home,” the pastor said when he deposited the key in my hand. “And so you have no excuse to miss a meeting,” he added with a wink, eliciting some chuckles from the beaming body of church members watching this exchange unfold.

I had just taken the membership vows to join this church, the first time I’d joined a church since leaving home for college many years earlier. I’d attended several churches through my college days, but never once had I thought about becoming a member. It never seemed necessary to make the membership promises to support the church’s people with my prayer and love, and its ministries with my time and talents. But in this moment, in my mid-20’s, it made all the sense in the world. I belonged there, with this particular group of people in rural North Carolina, with this loving and sometimes quirky subset of the universal body of Christ.

I did not expect the pastor to give me a key to the church upon joining. I did not know he gave all new members a key to the church. So it took me by surprise when he handed me that key; but it was a happy surprise, confirming what I already felt. This was home. I mattered here.

I can tell you from experience that knowing you matter in a church does not come by way of something anyone tells you. Nor does it come about because of a particular ministry or event, like a membership class or block party. Knowing you matter in a church comes through the attitude, behaviors, and warmth of the people in the church. For me it happened around Wednesday supper tables and at the coffee carafe following worship. It happened during Bible Study discussions and on the Vacation Bible School’s infamous slip’n slide.

I began to believe I matter here when it became clear to me that everyone matters here. Not just the highly respected community leaders, but also the man just released from prison looking for a soft place to land. Not just the church ladies who ran so many ministries, but also the special needs adult who called the church his second home. Because they mattered, I knew I could matter, too.

I wrapped my hand around that key with gratitude. It’s a rare gift, being welcomed so freely into a community of love.

I’ll admit I’ve never felt comfortable at churches that demand a measure of belief before one can belong. Nor have I felt comfortable at churches that function as if one must know certain practices before they can belong. Like many of you readers, I’ve had those experiences in church where I don’t fully know what the people in the pews next to me believe, but I get the unmistakable sense that if I don’t agree with them, they won’t be happy to see me. I’ve also had those experiences when I’ve attended a church service and had no idea what was happening because it was so different from what I’ve known. With no one sitting beside me to show me the ropes, I was lost for most of it.

Both experiences were uncomfortable and awkward, causing my insecurities to scream that everyone was judging me for not knowing or doing the right things. Each time I left with the isolating feeling that I was an outsider, someone who could never belong.

The truth is, churches are not always good at telling people they matter, that they belong simply because they are a beloved part of God’s creation, a valuable member of God’s family, regardless of what they believe or what they know. I can’t name a single church that still hands out physical keys like the church I joined years before. But I do know that churches often keep the metaphorical keys to the community tucked away in their pocket, only to extend it when someone has proven themselves worthy of belonging, either by what they know or by what they know how to do.

Perhaps the universal Church, at least the part that resides in the USA, needs a revival of hospitality, that ancient virtue compelling believers to extend a gracious welcome, no matter who comes seeking it, no matter what it requires of them.

After all, when we extend that gracious welcome, we are greeting none other than God. An Ethiopian proverb says it this way, “When a guest arrives, it is God who comes.” Hospitality is choosing to graciously include another in a manner that honors the image of God within them, and in a way that allows them to encounter God in the welcome.

At the church I serve, we definitely do not give keys to everyone who joins the church. Our size and location permit such a practice, and I’m pretty sure our insurance company would drop us if we decided to try. But these days I’m less concerned about physical keys, anyways. For me and the church I serve, it’s all about the metaphorical keys of belonging.

Our ushers open the literal door for everyone who enters our building on Sunday mornings, always with a smile and gentle greeting, thus opening up a metaphorical door of welcome that communicates the heart of Christian hospitality: You matter here. You can belong here.

Our pastors and liturgists guide people through the worship services with as many instructions and cues as possible without being distracting; it’s a delicate balance, one we don’t always get right. But in doing so we place the keys to worship in the outstretched hand of the novice and the newcomer. You matter here. You can belong here.

Our volunteers with children and youth ministries learn names and give high fives and ask questions about what’s going on in the lives of our young people, and really, truly care to hear the answer. You matter here. You can belong here.

A church doesn’t create this kind of culture overnight, it’s powered by the people who live it every day. It’s not engineered by a program or a ministry, it’s an extension of the hospitality in the heart of its people.

I love that I have a front row seat to see the virtue of hospitality surface in the small moments of a church’s life, the ones that others may not notice.

The couple who takes the special needs adult under their wing, saving him a seat in worship and at church suppers.

The group of children dancing, spinning in circles, naturally accommodating and including the child in the wheelchair spinning with them.

The quiet hug in the back of the sanctuary over a grief shared.

The listening ear between services, and words of comfort in the parking lot.

All these moments and more whisper over and over to any who are paying attention: You matter here. You belong here.

I am not saying the church I serve always gets it right; no church gets it right 100% of the time. But I am grateful for the witness of the churches that try. The ones that seek to value belonging over belief, hospitality over conformity. Churches like these really do exist within the universal Church, and their witness gives me hope. In a world where social media and political parties and societal expectations pressure us to conform, conform, conform in order to belong, Jesus offers a different way.

In Christ’s holy Church we are invited just to be. In Christ’s holy Church we are welcomed home, where the only who has the key is Jesus, and he has propped the door wide open, beckoning all to come in, saying: You matter here. You belong here.

This is why I can say with confidence, despite evidence to the contrary, that with all its scandals, failures, and political schemes, it is still a beautiful Church. Be hopeful. God is still here.

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“I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness but will have the light of life.” -Jesus, John 8:12 (NRSV)

We “sprang forward” that night, and I came to church bleary-eyed after losing an hour of sleep. This was my first spring daylight savings time in this church, and while I’m used to people being late or tired due to this annual travesty of time, I was not expecting the literal course of the sun to be such a problem. We have a gloriously large and colorful stained glass window above our chancel, and it faces due east. It’s a depiction of the resurrection, with Mary Magdalene kneeling before a risen Jesus beside an empty tomb.

On this particular Sunday, the resurrection window was aglow with sunshine. The loss of one hour meant sunrise was an hour earlier, which meant the rising sun was shining directly through the window into half of the pews as worship began at 8:30 am. And y’all, it was BRIGHT. It was I hope people put on sunscreen bright.

I stood on the chancel steps to begin the service and looked out upon the church, the gathered body of Christ. It was more than a little amusing, if I’m telling the truth, because everyone still had to sit in their usual seats, where they sit every Sunday. It didn’t matter if they got sunburnt. This was where they sat. So instead of moving out of the direct sun, they made adjustments. Many held the worship bulletins over their eyes, shading their faces from the glare. Some were squinting at me and trying to smile at the same time, which is very hard to do, and their admirable effort made their wobbly smiles all the more meaningful.

And then I saw her. She sat tall and regal, the one and only person not squirming or squinting under the intense blaze of sunlight. She clearly knew what to expect this particular morning, as indicated by the very large and very dark sunglasses perched gracefully on her nose, covering half of her face. She smiled up at me from her sun-drenched pew, ready for worship to begin.

And that’s when she became my hero. She was prepared. She came expecting the Light to shine upon her. She came ready to receive its warmth. As pastors say to one another when we have good stories to share - that’ll preach.

Today is Wednesday of Holy Week, the week my pastor husband affectionally calls “our Super Bowl.” Not only will we see large crowds at our six services between Thursday and Sunday, including many who don’t regularly attend Christian worship services, we’ll also have an opportunity to proclaim the heart of our faith. Christ has died, Christ is risen, Christ will come again.

As part of our preparations for Holy Week we invited our church leaders to pray with us over our worship spaces. Yesterday, on Tuesday, several folks gathered in the Sanctuary and we explained the job.

“We’ll have many visitors this Sunday,” we explained. “Many who are unsure of what Easter is all about. Many who haven’t been in a church in years. Many who have been harmed by the church or by bad theology. Many who feel too unworthy or too guilty or too ashamed to show up. Our job is to pray for all of these and more, that God’s grace would surround them and God’s presence would be known to them.”

So we scattered throughout our various worship spaces, our children’s spaces, and even our Easter egg hunting lawn to pray for those who will come gladly, and for those who will come hesitantly or even reluctantly.

As I walked the campus in prayer, I kept thinking of my sunglasses hero who expected the sun to shine. I prayed for myself and all others leading worship alongside me, that we would be similarly expectant, that we would fully anticipate the resurrection power of Christ to enliven the hearts and lives of all who seek Jesus on Easter Sunday. I prayed that the light of Christ’s love would shine so brightly upon our gathered worshipping body that God’s presence would be unmistakable. I prayed that the Church would bask in the warmth of God’s grace.

Mary Magdalene is my biblical hero in so many ways, for if there is a sunglasses wearer in the Gospel of John, it’s her. She shows up at the tomb on Easter Sunday to find it empty, which astounds and confounds her grief-stricken heart. She runs to collect Peter and John and they come to investigate, finding the tomb empty and the grave clothes left behind. And then … they go home. They go home! It’s like they shrug their shoulders and say, welp, that’s weird, and go back to their hidey holes of fear.

But not Mary Magdalene. She puts those sunglasses of faith on and stays put. She is going to find out what the heck happened to Jesus’ body and she’s going to make it right. She is not expecting him to appear to her as a resurrected man, but she is expecting that God will show her how to honor the body of the man who taught her how to live with holy expectation.

That’s when Jesus showed up. He stood before her and called her name, and the light of Christ shone upon her, but she wasn’t blinded. She was not expecting Jesus to appear like this, but she saw him in his glory anyways and fell to her knees in awe, proclaiming, “My Lord and My God.”1

As we closed our prayer time together on Tuesday, one of our church leaders prayed, “Lord, I can feel that you will show up in a mighty way this week. Thank you for being powerfully present among us.” She has her sunglasses ready; by God, so will I.

Of course, I’m not going to wear literal sunglasses on Easter, but rather I’m putting on my figurative sunglasses of faith. I’m going to watch for the light of Christ to show up in unexpected and extraordinary moments. The Son will shine, and I will be ready to help the often majestic, sometimes maddening, always mystical Church exclaim in awe and wonder, “My Lord and my God.”

This Easter I am remembering that with all its scandals, failures, and political schemes, it is still a beautiful Church because it is Christ’s Church. Be hopeful. God is still here.

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P.S. A Note from Laura:

By the way, you may have noticed that I have not been sharing monthly stories as I previously did. Life has been full of transitions this past 8 months, including starting at a new and wonderful church. My creativity has sluggishly tried and failed to keep up with all of life’s changes. I’ll get back to writing more regularly in the coming months, so stay tuned!

In Luke’s gospel, an angel of the Lord appeared before unsuspecting shepherds, and as the glory of the Lord shone around them, the angel spoke of a baby born unto them, a Savior, who is Christ the Lord. Then a heavenly host of Christmas angels filled the skies and sang, “Glory to God in heaven, and on earth peace among those whom he favors.” (Luke 2:14)

Many people miss the subtext of the angels’ message, a subtext that would have been unmistakable for the original readers. For in the days when Caesar Augustus ruled, the words “Savior” and “Lord” and “Peace” were as politically familiar to the average person as the words “fake news” and “woke” are to us. Caesar Augustus, ruler of the mighty and sprawling Roman Empire, named himself Savior of the world, proclaimed hismelf a divine being, and had his royal heralds sing abroad of his great “Pax Romana”, a peace to outshine all peace. Of course, this “peace” was continually achieved through the subjugation of non-Roman peoples, like the Jews, and often required a great deal of violence and murder to maintain. And, of course, Augustus was no god, just an ordinary human with an extraordinary amount of power and an inordinately large ego. But nobody dared say this.

That is, not until the angels appeared in the sky before the shepherds and spoke the truth to end all truths. The real Savior of the world, the true Lord, the one who would bring about lasting shalom, he’s not in a palace somewhere living in the lap of luxury, he’s a helpless newborn lying in a feeding trough, born in obscurity to a peasant family, in a barn of all places. Forget that buffoon in Rome, the angels were practically singing, forget his policies and propaganda, and turn your eyes and heart instead to this miraculous baby, God in the flesh, the true hope of the world.

You see, the Christmas angels’ message has always been subversive, and I think of this when I look out my office window and see my church’s angels proudly populating the lawn. They, too, proclaim a savior of who is the true Lord of all, who extends peace to the marginalized, the hurting, the oppressed, and the vulnerable. These yard angels stand watch as my church quietly goes about the (sometimes subversive) peace-extending work of the Savior.

These angels stood watch as the church decided to give above and beyond to the local food banks when SNAP benefits were withheld. These angels stood watch as the church collected Christmas presents for children whose parents are incarcerated, and again for youth who are unhoused and unparented. These angels stood watch as the church hosted a Blue Christmas service for folks who are lonely and grieving and heartbroken. These angels stood watch as the Missions Committee decided to designate the Christmas Eve offering to a partner ministry that offers welcome and support for refugees, knowing how desperately refugees are struggling in our current political climate. These angels will stand watch on Christmas Eve as the church will extend an extraordinary welcome, a wide-open inclusion, cherishing any and all who come seeking the Christ child.

You see, when the Church is at its best, it doesn’t just skate through this season with superficialities, celebrating a cute baby in a manger, angels in the heavens, and a star in the sky. Rather, the Christmas Church at its best makes the subversive song of the angels its own, proclaiming the One who is truly Lord of all, the one who came to right every injustice and heal every wound and proclaim God’s favor for all. The Church is meant to embody the message of the Christmas angels, living out loud and clear the good news of great joy for all people: a Savior is given to us, and his hope, peace, joy, and love are the real deal. So are the hundreds of people in my church who live as the embodiment of the Christmas angels’ message, embracing and proclaiming the subversive truth of the Christ child, God with us. Which is why I can say — with its scandals, failures, and political schemes, it is still a beautiful Church. Be hopeful. God is still here.

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“The only thing that counts is faith expressing itself through love.” Galatians 5:6 (NIV)

“How do you know someone’s faith is genuine?”

The question was posed at a recent Bible Study on Galatians, and discussion quickly ensued. The consensus was arrived at quickly and expressed clearly: when one’s behavior matches one’s belief.

“It’s a matter of a person’s deeds,” they said. Are they as kind, generous, and caring on Thursday at the water cooler as they are on Sunday in the narthex? Do they put Jesus’ words into action, loving God by loving their neighbor?

This Bible Study took Paul’s words to heart: “the only that counts is faith expressing itself through love.”

“Do you want to come to lunch?”

It was a whim of an invitation from a pastor friend during our seminary days, and knowing this wasn’t just any lunch invitation, of course I wanted to go! Together we left the esteemed halls of Duke Divinity School, nestled beside Duke Chapel in all its stonework and glory, and we walked beside carefully landscaped beds and across grass so green it didn’t quite look real. (It was.) We took the long walk to the graduate student parking, and I plopped my backpack at my feet as I climbed into her car. She didn’t drive us to one of the fashionable restaurants in downtown Durham, heading instead to the edge of town, where camps were set up in acres of undeveloped property, a unique neighborhood of sorts. We parked on a service road beside the highway and, though my friend had described what I could expect at this lunch, I nevertheless wondered what I had gotten myself into as I stepped out of the car.

It was a cold, clear February day and a ragtag bunch of folks were huddled under a tailgating tent, where a table was laden with chili and all the fixings. Camp chairs were grouped into large circles and some folks were already sitting with food on their laps, engaging in deep conversation. I heard laughter and the same kind of friendly banter I would’ve heard back at Duke in the dining hall, which made the juxtaposition that much more jarring. I ladeled chili into my bowl and had a seat in an empty camp chair between strangers, who quickly pulled me into their conversation.

The man on my right, I learned, lived in the woods and had no intention of returning to society, for a whole host of reasons, which actually made sense to me once he explained them. The man across from me was the jokester, who also lived in the woods and knew that his alcoholism was the cause, but that didn’t keep him from caring for his friends as best he could. And the man on my left was a member of the small, rural United Methodist Church that had prepared the meal. He was a home-owning, big-hearted man who was at home in this gathering, despite the social gap.

“I’m here every week,” he told me. Even when his church wasn’t in charge of the meal, even when other churches provided the food, he still came. When I asked what kept him coming back, he shrugged and said, “these are my friends.” It wasn’t the answer I expected. The conversation quickly moved on to sharing life stories and cheesy jokes, to laugher and eventually a time for prayer where celebrations were lifted, griefs shared, and tears shed.

It was all so very real, so very authentic; so much so that it made all the theology I was learning in seminary come alive. Forgiveness and grace took on new meanings. Justice and freedom did too.

I came back the next week, and the next, and the next until I was a regular, another friend in the mix of this ragtag group. My seminary experience was enriched by the relationships I made with the ones who lived in the woods and the ones who didn’t, the ones who came week after week from a handful of small churches, people who simply wanted to love their vulnerable neighbors as wholly as Christ had loved them. I saw the Church be the Church in a way that captured my imagination and my heart.

Faith expressing itself through love.

“How have you grown spiritually through this church?”

This is a question I am regularly asking the members of my new church, and I’m ashamed to say that I have been surprised by their answers. I expected lists of meaningful study curriculum or stories about influential teachers. But, by and large, the answer I’ve received the most is “service.” When I press for more details they explain.

“I go weekly to volunteer at the food bank because the church has a partnership there.”

“The church trained me to be a Stephen Minister, and caring for the emotional needs of people has made me a better person and a better Christian.”

“I think of that one time I went to Mexico with our mission team to serve alongside our Mexican ministry partners. I came back a different person, in the best way.”

This answer surprised me, but it shouldn’t have. Because it’s the same answer I have when I think about how the Church has helped me grow spiritually. Sure, I’ve learned a lot over the years in Bible Studies and sermons, but all of it would be worthless if the Church hadn’t also compelled me to do something to serve as Christ served, to love as Christ loved. It’s the gift the Church has given me, the inspiration and the means to express my faith through love.

As I write today, I am keenly aware that many of our vulnerable neighbors are facing a frightening and uncertain future as emergency SNAP funding has been denied and November is quickly approaching. I am not a politician nor do I have aspirations to be one, and I quite frankly do not have patience for political games or debates. But I am a Christian, one who is convinced that God cares for the poor and the vulnerable above pretty much all else. I am also a pastor, one who believes in the power of God at work through the Church as faith expressed through deeds of love.

The suffering around us is great, and the pain and anger over the injustices of our day can leave us feeling helpless. But when the Church is at its best, it has never shied away from suffering, nor has it sat on its hands in helpless anger. Rather, the Church empowers its people to cook a warm pot of chili in their quaint church kitchen, to muster up as many people as possible from their small membership rolls, and show up on a cold February day to share a meal and some love with anyone who has need of either.

The only thing that counts, St. Paul wrote, is faith expressed through love. The Church I know, the Church I love, the Church I am called to serve takes these words to heart, lives them as a motto and mission. Which is why I can confidently say, with all its scandals, failures, and political schemes, it is still a beautiful Church. Be hopeful. God is still here.

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Rarely does this clergy couple family have the opportunity to visit churches, and boy did we discover how much of an adventure that could be. How to choose which church to visit? Do they even publish their worship times online? If they aren’t online, are they even open? What kind of theology will our children be exposed to at this or that church? Will be welcomed even though our clothing is a little wrinkly and my hair is greasy and our kids are a little unruly as we’ve been camping for days on end and they have forgotten all their manners?

I was particularly worried about the latter when we slid into the second to last pew in a downtown church in a southern Quebec town. We had a time trying to figure out which churches would have services in English, so we drove 30+ minutes to this particular United Church of Canda because it promised a bilingual service. On our drive we passed a couple other churches, Catholic and nondenominational as best we could tell, that were brimming with people. Not so in this historic, nearly empty sanctuary. But what the church lacked in numbers it made up in heart.

We quickly realized that this service was not just bilingual, but tri-lingual, because the pastor, an African immigrant himself, was leading this historic, mostly white and French-speaking church into the frontlines of refugee ministry. Once the service began, more and more folks trickled into the sanctuary, mostly immigrants from various African countries, all dressed to the 9’s in traditional garb with babies, children, and teens in tow. The service proceeded in a mixture of French and English, with some Swahili songs sprinkled among the French and English hymns.

The flow of the service was a bit messy and disorganized. The order of worship would not pass muster at the larger, polished churches I have served. It certainly did not have the curb appeal or the “hey look how cool this church is” social media draw that the large non-denom’s we drove past use to their advantage.

And yet, it was holy and beautiful. God was unmistakably and charmingly present. And even more surprising, the impact this small, eclectic community was making in the town was enormous. Its smallness was its secret weapon, in a way, for they were small enough to open wide their doors and their hearts to their immigrant neighbors, who don’t always find a welcome, who need a place of belonging, who are worthy of love and community.

To what will I compare the Kingdom of heaven? Jesus said. It is like a mustard seed, the smallest of all seeds, yet it grows into a large haven for birds and their nests. (Matthew 13:31-32)

In this age of megachurches and megamovements, the parable of the mustard seed has much to teach us. In many places and among many circles, the Church has been reduced to a business. There’s talk of “target audience” and how to best “brand ourselves.” There’s the never-ending drive to be flashy, relevant, to draw the big crowds and the big bucks, to host THE EVENT of the season, to be Instagram-worthy — all in the name of Jesus, of course. And while the appropriation of business ideals is not wrong in itself, even fruitful from time to time, it can become its own idol. Bigger and better become the things we worship, not the God who celebrates the value of the mustard seed. It’s not that God is opposed to big churches and big gatherings (after all, Jesus did preach to and feed the 5,000); rather, God is opposed to churches and gatherings boasting that its BIGNESS is a sign of its FAITHFULNESS, or that its BIGNESS is a sign of God’s FAVOR.

September 1 was my first day as pastor at a new church. The church itself is not new, just new to me. In the United Methodist tradition, as I’m confident is true in most traditions, a pastor’s job for the the first 90 days at a new church is to listen. Listen in one-on-one conversations. Listen in group gatherings. Listen in meetings and in worship. I’ve been listening for the heartbeat of the church, I’ve been listening for where God has been moving and where God may be leading us. I’ve been listening for their healing wounds and audacious dreams. I’ve been listening for how this particular church is uniquely part of God’s Kingdom work in my community. And because this is a large church, in my first 30 days I’ve heard lots and lots and lots of stories.

And while this large church has done large and impactful things for God’s Kingdom, the stories I’m hearing over and over are about the miracle of small things. That person who sat beside a new visitor and made them feel right at home. A generous soul who came and fixed up a widow’s house. The Sunday School class that brought meals and offered prayers in a time of crisis. The youth leader who encouraged a teen to say yes to God’s call. It’s the mustard seed of Christ-centered relationship that has made all the difference in the lives of my new parishioners.

In our pursuit of BIGNESS, we often forget this is how the Kingdom of God is made known among us, by mustard seed acts of love and kindness which grow into a haven of love and grace for all who seek its shelter.

When the service was over at the United Church of Canada, we politely begged off the many invitations to attend their post-worship coffee hour. The pastor, having learned our professions by then, presented us with a gift.

It was a small blue votive candle in a simple glass holder, and accompanying it was a piece of paper that described the origin and meaning of the gift. “Peace Candle” it said, and it told the story of a pastor who visited the Soviet Union in 1985. There he met an old woman who gave him a mustard seed amount of money and told him to take it home to the USA and put it toward world peace. So, the story goes, he bought a small votive candle, placed it on a table, and lit it. His Presbyterian congregation, upon hearing this story, added a permanent peace candle in their sanctuary and bought votives to give to guests to take home to their own churches, with the hope that churches everywhere - big or small - may light the candle and pray for peace in the world. These peace candles have been spread throughout the world over the past 40 years, so that churches big and small are connected in prayer and in spirit as we seek God’s peace for ourselves and our neighbors. All because of the mustard seed gift of an old woman who was tired of war, tired of the Big in the world trampling the Small.

The candle now sits on my desk, reminding me to pray for peace. It also reminds me that the mustard seed way of life is the Church’s secret weapon, the most effective means by which we can manifest Christ’s peace on earth. There is no act of love or mercy too small to fertilize God’s Kingdom, to help it to grow and flourish. This is what makes a church big in heart and impact, if not in size. This is what keeps me coming back to the Church, day after day, eagerly waiting see which mustard seed act of love God will use next to change a life…or even the world.

So you see, with all its scandals, failures, and political schemes, it is still a beautiful Church. Be hopeful. God is still here.

I have received an incredible gift from the Church - a whole summer of renewal leave, aka sabbatical leave. Three months for me and my family to seek that illusive, hard-to-define renewal. Scriptures use a variety of metaphors to describe it, including:

“Even youths grow tired and weary, and young men stumble and fall; but those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint.” -Isaiah 40:30-31 (NIV)

“The Lord will guide you always; he will satisfy your needs in a sun-scorched land and will strengthen your frame. You will be like a well-watered garden, like a spring whose waters never fail.” Isaiah 58:11, NIV

“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.” Matthew 11:28-30, NIV

This summer of renewal, which we’ve been planning for over two years, is more than a paid holiday. In the United Methodist tradition in which I serve, we clergy are provided the opportunity for renewal leave every seven years. Seven is theologically significant, of course, as seven is also the year of Jubilee named in Leviticus 25. The year when debts are forgiven and fields are left untended so they may lie fallow for a whole year, a long rest before another season of fruitful production.

Jubilee and it’s fallow fields is the metaphor that I keep returning to, imagining myself as a field that is free to grow wild. Instead of the cultivated rows of produce I’m accustomed to — the to-do lists and routines of sermon prep and Bible study teaching and pastoral counseling — I am allowed to simply be. To see what flowers can grow from the weeds, what butterflies like to visit this untended earth, what rain feels like when I’m not depending on it to produce, produce, produce.

This search for renewal just happens to overlap a season of pastoral transition. When renewal leave began at the end of May, I said farewell to the church I have loved and served for six years. When we return to ministry at the end of our renewal leave, I will begin serving at a different church, one I am eager to meet and love and lead. So I find myself in a strange season of in-between-ness. I’m a pastor without a flock, a preacher without a pulpit, a leader without a people to lead.

While this pastoral transition was unexpected (it sometimes is in the United Methodist Church) and while it was so hard to say goodbye to the people I love so dearly, I am discovering the gift of this strange in-between-ness. I can just BE, with no expectations other than centering myself in the love of God and the profound gift of my family.

Speaking of family, I have a husband and two daughters, ages eleven and nine. Today we are beginning a 6-week long journey across the eastern seaboard with a minivan and a pop-up camper. We will camp in beautiful parks and be tourists in big cities. We will chase fireflies, roast s’mores, enjoy hikes, and probably make some friends along the way.

When my colleague asked me months ago how I will know my renewal leave was successful, I answered as best I could in the moment.

“I’ll know it’s been successful when I return to ministry and someone brings me a new idea and it doesn’t make me tired,” I replied. It’s still a true answer, but perhaps it’s not the fullest answer.

If I were to answer the question today, I would say, “I will know this renewal leave has been successful when I can describe what renewal feels like, what it smells and tastes and sounds like.”

I’m well on my way. For now, renewal feels like stopping myself from checking my email obsessively. It feels like learning to be present to each and every moment God has given me. And in the weeks to come, I suspect renewal will look like open roads and gorgeous views. I suspect it will smell like campfire and sound like my girls’ laughter and taste like Maine lobster and Canadian mussels.

I have all sorts of ideas of what renewal will feel like in the weeks to come, but I can tell you with certainty what it feels like today. Renewal feels like gratitude. Gratitude for the Church, because the Church has given me this extraordinary gift. The Church has embraced the spirit of Jubilee alongside me, reminding me that it is okay to lie fallow. Reminding me - yet again - that I am not loved for what I can produce; rather, I am loved simply by being me, even a fallow field growing wild in the Kingdom of God.

You see, with all its scandals, failures, and political schemes, it is still a beautiful Church. Be hopeful. God is still here.

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P.S. Unless creativity strikes like a lightning bolt and I can’t help but write, you will not hear from me again until September. I’ll be back, with many stories to share of the beautiful church I am soon to serve!

My breath caught as reality hit. This was the actual road Paul traveled to reach Philippi, Thessaloniki, and Amphipolis, and who knows where else he stopped along the way.

The bus driver for our forty-four-person Paul’s Journeys Pilgrimage pulled to the side of the road on a narrow shoulder, steps away from a busy intersection in this bustling port city. Our tour guide assured us that buses do this all the time, even though the road afforded no official place to stop.

“It’s the best view of the Via Egnatia and the port,” she explained. And indeed, it was. We were high above the city, and could see the sparkling water of the Aegean Sea on the horizon, just beyond the cars zooming on busy roads and the large ships unloading at the dock. And there, in the foreground, was the ancient road, the Via Egnatia, the path of Paul and his pilgrims, who seek to find Christ as they follow in his steps.

“Please,” she added as a city bus barrelled by, uncomfortably close to our tour bus, “stay on the sidewalk.”

It was good advice. Our bus jutted out into the lane of oncoming traffic as we filed out onto the safety of the sidewalk and took in the view. Cars zoomed by, some honking their irritation at our bus for disrupting their morning commute.

Still, the juxtaposition was oddly delightful. The buzz of a modern city was punctuated by the unhurried meander of the ancient stone path. It felt significant to hold these two realities in tandem. Ancient vs. modern, meandering vs. hurried, inviting vs. demanding. It felt significant to stand shoulder to shoulder with members of my church and admire the view.

It beckoned me, that peaceful pilgrim path weaving through the blur of modern life, unaffected by its incessant demands. It was preserved so beautifully, as if Paul still walked its path, as if pilgrims like us might meet the resurrected Jesus on any given bend.

There are many metaphors I have relied upon to describe the life of discipleship. Gardening metaphors are some of my favorites, taking my cue from Jesus, who used agrarian parables regularly to describe life in God’s Kingdom. I use athletic metaphors less frequently, but the Apostle Paul leaned on them heavily with phrases like “run with patience the race set before us”, and “fight the good fight”, and “wrestle not with flesh and blood.” My favorite metaphor for discipleship betrays my Wesleyan theology, for like John Wesley (the founder of the Methodist movement), I prefer to talk about the life of discipleship as a process, or better yet, as a journey…as a pilgrimage.

In the United Methodist tradition in which I serve, we talk about the life of discipleship as a life of sanctification. We are drawn to Jesus through prevenient grace, we confess our need for grace and proclaim Jesus as Lord through justifying grace, and it is through sanctifying grace that we are - to quote John Wesley - “perfected in love.” This process, this journey, this pilgrimage of being “perfected in love” is a lifelong path, with twists and turns, bumps and brambles, smooth stones and sunny days. The destination? Becoming like Jesus. Being restored by the power of the Holy Spirit into the image of God that we were created to reflect, a unique and contextual reflection of Christ’s love for the world. John Wesley described sanctification as "having the mind of Christ and walking as he walked” (Sermon 40).

I returned to this metaphor of discipleship as pilgrimage often throughout our 10-day journey through Greece and Turkey. What did it mean to be a pilgrim? Not just on this trip, but once we go home, back to our daily living - what wisdom from this journey might we pack in our suitcase and treasure forever as a priceless souvenir?

The thing about being a pilgrim on a journey such as ours is that a certain level of openness is required. Each day we opened our minds to learn more about the Scriptures, about Paul’s life, about what God might be teaching us through the sites we would visit. And perhaps more importantly, each day we opened our hearts to one another. We had meaningful conversations with people we hardly knew five days prior. We sang together, we prayed together, we shared our reflections and our jokes, our worries and our hearts. These tender moments of connection were where the real magic happened, where the richest spiritual growth occurred. The Way of discipleship - the path of the pilgrim - is not meant to be walked alone. Blessed is the pilgrim whose progress is measured not in the quantity of miles covered, but in the quality of connections formed with fellow travelers along the Way.

John Wesley wrote this of sanctification, of the pilgrim’s discipleship journey:

“Directly opposite to this is the Gospel of Christ. Solitary Religion is not to be found there. "Holy Solitaries" is a Phrase no more consistent with the Gospel than Holy Adulterers. The Gospel of Christ knows of no Religion, but Social; no Holiness but Social Holiness. Faith working by Love, is the length and breadth and depth and height of Christian Perfection.”

John Wesley, Hymns and Sacred Poems

This was why it mattered that we stood shoulder to shoulder and viewed the Via Egnatia, shutting out the noise of the world long enough to hear the Spirit of God whispering on the wind, drawing us into communion with each other. We weren’t just pilgrims, we were pilgrims together, and there is a world of a difference between the two. That world of a difference is the beauty of the Church.

For within any given Church body, pilgrimages happen all the time, and not just in far-off places. Pilgrimages happen when we take a sister in Christ to the oncology appointment and make jokes along the way to ease her nerves. Or when we Prayer Walk through the Sanctuary’s pews together early on Sunday morning, praying for all who will sit in worship seeking God. Or when we study a book of the Bible together, seeking to understand the people, places, and events within by seeking to understand the perspective of the people, places, and events sitting right before us. In any given Church, we pilgrims regularly step onto that sacred, winding path, setting aside the hustle and bustle of modern life - if only for a moment - to encounter Jesus together around the bend.

At the end of our 10-day pilgrimage, our fellow pilgrims were surprised to admit that one of the best parts of the whole trip was the new friendships they formed. Visiting holy sites and experiencing sacred moments together made the moments all the more sacred, all the more life-changing. Turns out, we’re never alone on the Way called discipleship, not so long as we open our hearts and minds to the pilgrims progressing alongside us.

It was later that day in Phillipi when we had a chance to step on the Via Egnatia, to literally walk in the footsteps of Paul. The Via Egnatia cuts directly through the city center of ancient Philippi, and there is no doubt that Paul, Timothy, Silas, and even Luke walked upon these stones.

First to set foot on the Via Egnatia were my children, who giddily asked, voice volume rapidly rising in excitement, “Do we really get to WALK WHERE PAUL WALKED?” They practically bounded onto the path, and the rest of us followed with more care to where we placed our feet on the uneven two-thousand-year-old stone path. And so it was that forty-two adults followed two children on an ancient disciples’ path, and the metaphor “journey of discipleship” took on a whole new life. For it wasn’t the quiet shuffle of one pair of shoes that caused goosebumps to rise on my arms. It was the steady rhythm of eighty-eight shoes. It was the quiet laughter and exclamations of joy, and my kids’ awe-struck voices yelling, “CAN YOU BELIEVE WE’RE WALKING WHERE PAUL WALKED?!” while patient adults from their church family agreed, just as loudly, “I KNOW! IT’S SO COOL!” I half expected the risen Jesus to greet us on the path, to reveal himself to us, and perhaps, through one another, that’s exactly what he did.

We were pilgrims progressing toward Christ together, as it’s always been for those who walk the Way, as it always will be for those who are brave enough to open their hearts to the beauty of the Church and the progressing pilgrims within.

You see, with all its scandals, failures, and political schemes, it is still a beautiful Church. Be hopeful. God is still here.

He has told you, O mortal, what is good;
and what does the Lord require of you

but to do justice, and to love kindness,
and to walk humbly with your God?

Micah 6:8, NRSV

“What are we the Church supposed to do?”

I have fielded dozens of iterations of this question over the last four weeks. Like when federal grants were frozen and our church’s community partners were undercut, left to scramble to fund their life-saving work among the poor and vulnerable. Or when USAID was torn apart, and our nation stopped providing care for Jesus in the “least of these”1 across the world. And when political disdain for immigrants threatened our sister Spanish-speaking church as well as the refugee organizations we support. The question keeps coming, day by day by day —

In this particular moment in the United States, what does the Lord require of us, Christ’s Church?

I want to acknowledge that you, my readers, are a politically diverse bunch. We did not all vote alike in the fall of 2024, and we do not think alike on any number of topics related to governance. In light of this reality, I quote Rev. John Wesley, the founder of the Methodist movement, who famously said, “Though we cannot think alike, may we not love alike?”2

So before you decide to read no further because Laura’s about to get political, let me assure you. I am no politician, nor do I have dreams of becoming one. I created this Substack series of essays to offer reflections on the beauty, nature, and calling of Christ’s Church in the present tense. I will not stray from that intent.

However, if the Church is to live into the fullness of its beauty in this present moment, we must not shy away from “being political.” In fact, we are required to be political, just as we are required not to be partisan. Being “political” is a mark of beauty, for on a basic level it means being involved in the welfare of the community in which one lives. Being “partisan,” on the other hand, means being a loyal supporter of a particular person or party.

As Christians, we are called to be political because the Gospel of Jesus IS political. It cares deeply about the welfare of people and the quality of communities (aka governments) people create. As Jesus proclaimed in his first sermon, the Gospel is meant to bring good news to the poor, to proclaim release to the captives, to heal the blind, to win freedom for the oppressed, and to announce God’s Jubilee - that great societal reset that wipes debts clean and sets slaves free (Luke 4:17-21). This is the work of Jesus, and by extension, the work of Christians in every nation under every government throughout all time. The Church is innately, inescapably, gloriously, beautifully political because its mission is to tend to the welfare of the community in which it exists.

At the same time, the Church must never fall prey to partisanship. It’s true that many churches in the USA have embraced a partisan brand of Christianity, one in which pastors directly admonish parishioners to support this particular party or that particular candidate, as if the party’s platform or the candidate’s promises amount to God’s very promise of salvation.

This is idolatry, plain and simple.

Let me be clear. I am not saying Christians cannot belong to a political party or support this or that politician. I am saying that Christians slide into idolatry when they wholesale adopt a party’s platform or a politician’s priorities as their primary orientation to the world, when these become more pressing than Christ’s vision and his Kingdom’s goals.

We the Church have only one party platform, and that’s the way of God’s Kingdom. We the Church have only one King, one Lord, one Hero, and that’s Jesus.3

No political party or politician can become the fullness of God’s Kingdom. Earthly kingdoms, human rulers, and worldly systems of governance will always fall short of Christ and Christ’s Kingdom. Always.

Which is why I’ve been singing along lately with the Porter’s Gate poignant melody:

O say can you see

we have one allegiance

to the Kingdom of Jesus.

-The Kingdom of Jesus by the Porter’s Gate & Jon Guerra

We the Church have one primary allegiance, and this allegiance takes precedence over our commitment to our country, our political party, or any particular politician. Our allegiance is to Christ and his Kingdom, a Kingdom that promises to turn the world upside down.4 A Kingdom that blesses the poor and the downtrodden.5 A Kingdom that insists the first will be last6 and the powerful will be humbled.7 A Kingdom that will transform weapons into gardening tools8 and despair into joy.9 A Kingdom that will reign with the power of love forever and ever.10

This Kingdom, we learn from Jesus, starts as small as a mustard seed.11 The Kingdom arrives among us as small seeds of kindness, through tender moments of forgiveness, in every march for justice. The Kingdom grows within us and through us whenever we embrace the way of Jesus, the way of love.

I am currently leading a class on the Revised Social Principles of the United Methodist Church. The Social Principles is a 117-year-old document that has been revised every few years to reflect the political (in the truest sense of the word) discernment of the people called Methodist.

It was created in 1908 by Christians who were opposed to the callous treatment of human life in the age of American industrialization. The original document, called The Social Creed,12 begins with these bold words: “The Methodist Episcopal Church Stands…” and then lists 11 political principles that these Methodists believed were God-discerned essentials to the well-being of the community in which they lived. These principles included “equal rights and complete justice for all men in all stations of life,” and “a living wage in every industry,” and “the abolition of child labor,” to name a few.13 This political document was the first of its kind published by a church in America, and it became the blueprint by which Methodists and other American Protestant churches began to engage in politics for the welfare of their communities. The UMC’s recently revised Social Principles document is longer and more comprehensive than its original counterpart, but it holds fast to the original charge - to state the political discernment of United Methodist Christians seeking to live as citizens of God’s Kingdom in a corrupt and crooked world.

“I wonder what would have happened,” we asked in class, “if the Church had not spoken up at all in 1908? If they never advocated for the abolition of child labor? If they never called for equality for all stations of life? What might the world be like today?”

It’s a question we didn’t answer, but one I’ve been pondering ever since.

So back to the original question — “what are we, the Church, supposed to do about all we are seeing unfold around us?” The answer, I’m afraid, is as challenging as it is simple. We are to live as responsible citizens of God’s mustard-seed Kingdom, doing justice, loving kindness, and humbly embracing the political priorities of our King, Jesus. This means we keep doing the justice-oriented, mercy-offering, Earth-tending ministries that God has given us to do. It means we call our representatives14 when the values of Christ’s Kingdom are threatened, when the freedom and welfare of our neighbors are at stake. It means we go above and beyond to be kind and respectful, especially toward minorities and immigrants who are receiving the brunt of societal disdain. It means we support and encourage one another, reminding our siblings in Christ that we belong to a King and Kingdom who are not of this world.

Therein lies the beauty of the Church — for our beauty is essentially a reflection of the beauty of Christ’s Kingdom. Our beauty is revealed when the Kingdom of God shines through us.

So we do not give in to helplessness and we do not bow to hatred or vitriol. We do not grow weary of doing mustard-seed measures of good, because in so doing, the Kingdom of God grows within us and around us, a most beautiful sight to behold.

You see, with all its scandals, failures, and political schemes, it is still a beautiful Church. Be hopeful. God is still here.

The ten middle school students in my group were eyeing the property nervously, arms crossed and shoulders bunched. We were there as part of our church’s annual middle school student service retreat, so 100 students from an affluent town were scattered throughout a diverse metro area on this bright and cold Saturday afternoon, learning how to love Jesus by loving their neighbors. My group spent the day volunteering at a thrift shop owned by this particular shelter, and as we sorted through the racks of $6 women’s blouses to remove old inventory, I explained to them that the profit made from these very blouses helped fund the shelter and its ministries. I explained as best I could to middle schoolers the complexities of how people end up unhoused, emphasizing that sometimes people need a little compassion, a little help getting back on their feet - precisely what this shelter’s ministries aimed to do.

“You’ve had a bad day before, right?” I asked them. Considering they were all in the throes of puberty, they nodded.

“Well, think about the people who come to this shelter as people who’ve had a string of really bad days, months, even years - where everything falls to pieces.” They nodded again, eyes thoughtful, so I kept talking.

“When you have a bad day, what helps you? It’s when someone comes along and treats you with kindness, or gives you a hand, or listens to you…right?” Again, more nods. No words - I’m pretty sure I had the only group of middle schoolers who didn’t like to talk. But there were intent expressions on their faces, so I knew they were listening.

“Well,” I continued, “that’s what we’re doing here. We’re being a bright spot in someone’s bad day. And,” praying they take the theological turn with me, I asked “why would we do that?”

No one talked. (Of course.) Until one of my group’s high school leaders spoke up.

“Because Jesus did that.” Bingo. Because Jesus did that.

Because everywhere Jesus went he found the people who were having the worst days, the worst months, the worst years, and he had compassion for them. He taught them, he healed them of their ailments, he showed them with his actions that they are beloved children of God.

I explained to the students that we Christians serve because Christ served us. We Christians show compassion because Christ is compassionate toward us. We Christians care about what happens to the poor, the foreigners, the ill, the outcasts because Jesus cares about them.

“We have the privilege of being messengers of Jesus,” I explained to them. “We get to share God’s compassion with people who are seeing a whole lot of very, very bad days.”

They nodded again, and I counted that as a win.

Presently, we stood steps away from the shelter’s front door, huddled for a devotional. We were due inside in a few minutes for a presentation by the shelter’s staff about the emergency relief they provide and the comprehensive programs they have developed to help unhoused people get back on their feet.

That’s when a woman approached our group. It was clear from her clothing and hygiene she was down on her luck, most likely unhoused, and it was clear from the look in her eye that she was on a mission for money. I made a beeline to intercept her before she hit up my 12-year-old students or co-leader for cash.

“Hello,” I said in my kindest, calmest, pastoral voice, trying to be that bright light I had described for the students.

She wanted money for a chicken sandwich. I offered to go with her inside the shelter to see how they could help. She turned her flashing, angry eyes on me and called me a “F-ing B-” (without the redacted bleeps, of course), then stormed off, mumbling more expletives with every step. Each word seemed to echo in the silence of my team’s huddle. Because, of course, nobody was talking.

It wasn’t the first time I’d been cussed out. And honestly, I’ve been called worse. But it WAS the first time I’d been cussed out in front of a group of middle schoolers from a wealthy, sheltered community, students who’ve had little to no encounters with folks living on the streets. I didn’t want this encounter to forever shape how they view people in poverty. I didn’t want them to embrace the contempt or disdain toward the poor that can be found in wealthier circles.

Welp, I thought. How am I going to talk about THIS with 10 middle school students who don’t actually like to talk?

That’s when I sensed God’s still, small voice speaking through the flustered mess of my mind.

Choose Compassion.

I turned around to face my group and bit back a rueful smile when I saw their faces. No doubt they’d heard these same expletives in the halls of their schools. No doubt these are the words they test out when they are alone with their friends. But never in a million years did they expect to hear these words hurled with such vehemence toward their pastor! They had no idea how to react. Should they be outraged? Afraid? Should they laugh? Should they cry?

Choose Compassion.

“Well.” I said with a shrug, “She must be having a really, really bad day.”

The next day was Sunday, and as worship began I realized that I accidentally left the door to the robing room ajar in the sanctuary. Anybody and everybody could see the mess of belongings that cluttered this room where we clergy get our robes on and prepare for worship.

I planned to get up and discreetly close the door at the first opportunity in the service, but until then I couldn’t look away. Because my eyes were drawn through the doorway to the photograph hanging on the wall, a print by Scott Muller.

It’s a surrealist photo that blends images of a regal church sanctuary with a bustling, busy city street. The chancel stands proudly at the top of the photo, with its fine woodwork and holy altar and general set-apartness. Stately pews line the edges of the photo, but where the center aisle should be there’s a superimposed photo of a bustling city street with cars, people, streetlights, and trees.

Running between the pews to the altar is the main street of the world. The place where the mess of life happens is cradled by the place where all of life is declared sacred.

Printed below the photo are these words: “We live under a vast canopy woven by the ages.”

I was frozen for a moment in worship, staring at the photo. I thought of that homeless shelter and the woman asking for a sandwich. I thought of all the people suffering in our communities and throughout our nation. I thought of the explosiveness of our political climate, the deep divisions in families and churches and communities, and - in the midst of all - how frightening the future feels for so many in these days of governmental transition.

“We live under a vast canopy woven by the ages.” Indeed — and that vast canopy is the compassion of God.

All that we’re experiencing, all the hope and happiness, as well as all the fear and helplessness and concern for ourselves and our neighbors, all of it is sheltered by the vast compassion of God.

And when the Church is at its best, its activities are woven into this vast canopy of Divine compassion. Most of the institutions that serve the common good in our Western world are the legacy of a compassionate Church. Take, for instance, homeless shelters. In the fourth century, compassionate Christians invented emergency shelters for the poor, the wanderers, the unhoused, and the immigrants. Our modern-day versions of homeless shelters and halfway houses are direct descendants of these earliest forms of shelter. Likewise, the concept of a hospital was created by compassionate Christians who couldn’t bear to see other humans suffer through sickness, especially because they couldn’t afford care. Monastic communities in the first couple of centuries created infirmaries to care for the ill, and by the fourth century, Basil the Great founded the first major hospital, providing comprehensive medical care for anyone and everyone who was sick.1

Choose compassion. From the earliest days of the Christian faith to today, Jesus’ followers choose compassion time and time again when they come face to face with people who are having bad days, weeks, and years. Why? To quote my high school leader, because Jesus did that.

On the drive back from the shelter, the students found their voice. Finally!

In the minutes after The Chicken Sandwich Incident, I introduced them to the concept of toxic charity. Then, once inside the shelter, they heard life stories from people who were once unhoused but had found their footing again. They learned about the myriad of programs at the shelter to help folks like the lady asking for a sandwich.

So on the drive back to church, they had lots of questions. They asked about policies and practices that impact the unhoused. They wondered aloud what it would feel like to sleep in your car and have nowhere else to turn. They discussed tangible ways they could show compassion for the men, women, and children who find themselves living through very, very bad days.

“Can I go back and bring them donations sometime?” one of the students asked.

“They would appreciate that very much,” I assured her.

As I drove them back to church, back into the comfort of their lives, I knew we didn’t solve the problems of the world. But that vast canopy of compassion covered us all the same. Compassion was our canopy as we walked the main street of the world, as we encountered deep suffering and found Jesus in the stories of loss, hopelessness, and finally triumph.

We didn’t solve the problems of the world, but we learned to choose compassion, first and always. We learned to see the sacredness of every life, and we discovered our calling to respond to the needs of others with open, patient hearts. Because Jesus did that. It may not feel or sound like much at first. But the history of the Church tells us that in the face of suffering, choosing compassion is the best place to start.

You see, with all its scandals, failures, and political schemes, it is still a beautiful Church. Be hopeful. God is still here.

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We can find our sanity
at the table of our talking.
-Pádraig Ó Tuama, from the poem "Babel" 

I wasn’t sure if anyone would come.  I had never offered an Election Day Prayer Service before.  To my knowledge, the church I serve had never hosted one. 

So I double-checked that everything was in place on the morning of November 5, 2024.  The Communion table was set.  The bulletins were printed and ready for the ushers.  I examined the bulletin for the 100^th time - the clean and crisp white paper printed with liturgies I had labored over for hours on end, crafting each sentence, examining each word.  One cannot be too careful with language these days, and the language of peacebuilding is careful work.

I was very aware that in the “battleground state” of North Carolina where I live, Election Day dawned upon divided cities and towns.  People awoke weary from the near-constant volley of political ads and attacks.  They awoke to families splitting at the seams, neighborhoods dividing, and cross-political friendships (if any remained) fraying.  In the days leading up to November 5, I heard more than one person mutter, “I’m just ready for it all to end.”

As if Election Day coming and going would repair our fissures and fractures.  As if, regardless of the outcome, we wouldn’t wake up on November 6 with the same vitriol, the same antagonism, the same deep divides fueled by the ferocity of election season.

When I first presented the idea of an Election Day Prayer Service to my colleagues and lay leaders, the reactions were varied. Some enthusiastically supported the idea of gathering our people in prayer on such an important, and emotionally fraught, day.  But others had concerns.  Will it come across as endorsing a particular candidate? some asked, while others wondered, Will it only heighten tensions in our already divided congregation?

I understood their concern. I serve a “Purple Church,” a faith community of people who vote on both sides of the aisle.  Political and theological homogeneity is not one of our problems.  There are the born-and-bred “red” Republicans and lifelong “blue” Democrats, as well as a whole host of others somewhere in the in-between.  When you mix all that together on our particular ecclesial palate, it produces a shimmery, iridescent purple. Reddish in this light, blueish in another.

Some find this terrifying, others find it baffling.  Many see it as an abomination, plain and simple.

I believe the Purple Church is essential, especially now.

It’s messy, for sure, this purple pool of thought.  But it’s also rare.  It gives me hope for what could be in our divided nation.  What other voluntary organizations exist nowadays where people with various political views engage in meaningful conversation?  Where else do our reds and blues co-mingle over potlucks or work together to care for the poor?  Where else do we get to know people deeper than the labels of their political affiliations, seeing who they are in all their human complexity?

Last week I had the great joy of attending a lecture at Duke University Chapel. (If you weren’t yet aware that I’m a nerd, I just used the words “joy” and “lecture” in the same sentence, so there you go.) The lecture was entitled “Poetry, Prayer, and Public Healing” and it was part lecture, part poetry reading by Pádraig Ó Tuama, an Irish poet, theologian, and mediator.  I have been following Pádraig’s work for a while now, so I was giddy with excitement all day long.  Seriously, I made my friends show up 45 minutes early with me so we could snag good seats.  For the record, we were 4^th row…just behind the VIPs, which was basically “almost VIP,” which was fine by me.  (Yes, there are VIP seats at lectures. And no, I’m not nerdy enough to have one.)

The lecture and poetry reading was nourishment for my soul, but these were not the words that most captured my imagination.  That came later, after Pádraig’s formal lecture was complete, and he was having an interview conversation about what he has learned from his work in conflict mediation between Protestants and Catholics in Ireland. 

What wisdom can you offer us here in the USA? the interviewer asked. No one needed to name the acrimoniousness and the fear tearing our country apart.  No one had to. We all felt it.

Pádraig, of course, did not presume to have any answers for us, as every context is different.  But he did say something that will always stick with me.

“Do not allow yourselves to be divided and conquered.”

I was so enraptured with Pádraig’s words that I did not write down his exact phrasing, so I cannot quote him directly here. But I found similar sentiments in an interview he gave in 2019:

“I suppose every corrupt power seeks to divide and conquer the thing that it’s trying to have power over. So when you look at the history of colonisation, part of the macabre genius of colonisation is to seek—and often it was successful—to get people to do their own self-hatred for themselves or between themselves by dividing people up.”1

Do not allow yourselves to be divided and conquered.  From where I sit, it seems that the powers and principalities of our world have a lot to gain from a divided people - more radicalization, more donations, more outrage, more fear, more donations, more power, more donations, more fuel for their fires. Did I mention more donations?  And so our nation stands, divided and afraid, rife with conflict, festering from untended wounds.

In truth, though, Pádraig’s words also made me think of the beauty of the Church - the Purple Church, especially.  For the Purple Church is a community that gathers divided peoples into one body, week in and week out.  It is a community that is challenged to “make every effort to keep the unity of the Spirit through the bond of peace” (Ephesians 4:13, NIV). 

We in the Church are called, against all odds, to paint peace with our palate of purple. We are called to resist being divided and conquered for the sake of the common good. This is a high and holy calling.

In the end, people did attend the Election Day Prayer service.  There were about 40 of us altogether.  There was a whole row of senior adult women who came directly from a Bible Study on the book of Acts.  There was a grandmother with her grandbaby.  There was a family with children.  There were teenagers and activists and business folks taking their lunch break.  There were people who voted Red and there were people who voted Blue, and we all knew it.

We prayed for our nation.  We prayed for the leaders who would be elected.  We named Jesus as our Lord, and we recommitted ourselves to God’s Kingdom.  We prayed that regardless of the outcome of the election, God would continue to guide us to fulfill our calling to love our neighbor, pursue peace, and work for justice in our community.

It was a tender service.  There was no rancor, no taunting.  There were no debates or hotly spoken words.  We were there to focus on Jesus, the one who knits us together against all odds.  The one we were all seeking, in our own limited and feeble ways.  We gathered around the Communion Table, and as I blessed the elements, I prayed the old, yet oh-so-relevant, words of our liturgy:

“By your Spirit make us one with Christ,
one with each other, and one in ministry to all the world,
until Christ comes in final victory, and we feast at his heavenly banquet.”2

The service ended, and we all went our separate ways to await our nation’s decision.  In the days that followed, as I sat with my deep disappointment at some of the results, I returned to this moment in my mind.  It helped me resist being divided and conquered. When people accused Trump voters of being this or that kind of person, I thought of my “red” parishioners and decided, No, that’s not always true.  When people accused Harris voters of being this or that kind of person, I thought of my “blue” parishioners and decided, That’s not always right, either.

And that’s the beauty - and importance! - of the Purple Church in today’s world. When we worship, serve, and live side-by-side we cannot write one another off as the “enemy,” as someone wholly “other” than ourselves that we can hate, revile, and scapegoat.  When we worship, serve, and live side-by-side we cannot easily be divided and conquered.  For when we worship, serve, and live side-by-side…

We can find our sanity
at the table of our talking.
We can shape our future 
if we keep on with our walking.
-Pádraig Ó Tuama 

You see, with all its scandals, failures, and political schemes, it is still a beautiful Church.  Be hopeful.  God is still here.

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“For where two or three are gathered in my name, I am there among them.” -Jesus, Matthew 18:20

We stepped into the ancient sanctuary a few minutes early, not knowing what to expect.  It was our first night in England, after all.  My pastor friend and I were in Cambridge for a week of spiritual renewal, hoping to do nothing but visit old churches, drink whole pots of tea, and attend Evening Prayer services…such as this one.  There was one other person in the church when we arrived, a man about my age bustling about in a manner my pastor’s heart recognized.  He was setting up for the service.  He paused when he saw us and offered a warm welcome before explaining that he needed to set up the Zoom for their virtual attendees.

I didn’t see that coming.

So I settled into the creaky pew and looked around, soaking up the quiet stillness of this 1,000-year-old sanctuary.  It wasn’t a towering cathedral with stone pillars and miles of stained glass.  It was a cozy stone building nestled between bustling University buildings and bars.  The church’s bell tower - dating from the time of the Normans - watched over the busy block.  Looking around the well-loved sanctuary, I marveled at the thought that for more than a millennia Christians have gathered on this hallowed ground, sat in these very pews, met for Evening Prayer night after night after night.

Soon an elderly lady shuffled in and sat directly in front of us.  She was thin and frail-looking, but she carried herself with a surprising liveliness.  She promptly turned around and struck up a friendly conversation.

“I frequently attend on Zoom,” Pamela explained to us, “but I was in town tonight so I came in person.”  She motioned to the empty rows behind us and explained that there is usually another gentleman who sits just there, so he must be joining online tonight.

“There’s usually 15 of us that attend Evening Prayer,” she told us, perhaps feeling a bit uneasy about the otherwise empty room, wondering what we Americans must be thinking.

“Every day?” my friend asked, incredulous. “15 people attend every day?” I understood her surprise. There’s no way we could get 15 people to attend evening prayer every single day at our large churches.

But Pamela nodded, all matter of fact, as if this was no big deal, and said, “Yes. And one of them lives in France!”

Not knowing what to say to that interesting aside, the empty room fell quiet once more.  But truth be told, nothing felt empty to me.  Not the empty pews or the stretching silence.  There was a peacefulness, a watchfulness, to the moment, as if God was filling the space, sitting beside us and our silent thoughts.  As if we weren’t really all alone in that church, as if the whole worldwide body of believers was there, too, just beyond our sight.

“Hello!” came a voice from the speakers up front.  The computer was positioned so that we in the pews could not see the people on Zoom - there was no hybrid meeting technology available in this sanctuary.  There were no screens, no Smart TVs, no state-of-the-art streaming technologies, so we couldn’t see the faces of those gathering from their homes for prayer. But we could hear them and they could hear us, and it was enough.

“Hello, Susan!” said Pamela, and she launched into a conversation with Susan and then Paul and then other disembodied voices who popped in online one by one by one.  They traded news and asked after one another, trying and failing to avoid that awkward Zoom faux pas of accidentally talking over one another.  Soon Pamela introduced us and we said our hellos, and then at promptly 6:45 pm the Evening Prayer began.

“We take turns leading,” Pamela whispered rather loudly as the Zoom voices listed the Scriptures and page numbers for the day.  We turned to the appropriate page in the Church of England’s prayer book and allowed ourselves to be led through the liturgy for Evening Prayer.

The woman leading that week’s liturgy had a delightfully warm voice with a quintessential accent and a vocal maturity that suggested an older age.  In fact, all the voices joining ours sounded like they belonged to older men and women. And though I could not see their faces, I could hear the depth of faith and conviction in their words as they responsively read the Psalms and prayed through the liturgy.

The juxtaposition of it all was wonderfully disorienting. There was the ancient sanctuary with its traditional stonework, pews, and art, and there was the modern laptop paired with Bluetooth speakers.  Zoom voices bounced off the hallowed walls reciting prayers that are older than the USA.  Those of us in person tried to match the cadence of those online, and vice versa, and we never quite got it right.  And in the midst of it all, the strangest thing happened.  I grew attached to these strangers, whose faces I never saw, whose names I never learned.  The act of praying alongside them, with all its quirks and juxtapositions, felt intimate and real and wholesome.  It brought me into the very real presence of God and into a very real sense of communion with them as members of one family, one body, one Church.

Time will tell the impact technology usage will have on the Church.  Presently in church leadership circles debates are raging about Livestream worship, whether it can count as “real church” or if in-person worship should always be the default.  Debates rage about the usage of Zoom, as well.  When to Zoom a church meeting?  When to Zoom a class?  Is one way better than another?  And theologically speaking, there are real concerns about what virtual connectivity will do to our understanding of Church as a gathered body, the tangible hands and feet of Christ.  And how will virtual connectivity help or hurt our deepest spiritual needs for real connection and companionship? 

A single, significant question swirls at the center of these virtual versus in-person debates: will Jesus still be with us if two or three gather online?

Pamela thinks so.  It’s her lifeline, this daily connection with Jesus and with the people who carry her through the ups and downs of life.  After praying with her church, I can see why.  Because this tiny, beautiful, aging body of believers has figured out something about this million-dollar question megachurches in America are relentlessly asking.  How do we leverage technology in ways that help faith rather than hinder it?  Well, this ancient church did not have state-of-the-art equipment or seamless integration of technology into their worshipping life.  Nope.  What they had was authenticity and sincerity.  And maybe that’s the secret of all. 

If a church is authentic and real and takes seriously the call to love God and one another, then surely it doesn’t matter what medium they use to gather.  The quality of their faith will shine through. And surely Jesus will meet them, whether they have two, three, fifteen, or five hundred gathered.  Surely no platform or technology or pesky Zoom updates can stop Jesus from gathering among those who invite him in with sincere hearts.

After the prayers ended and Pamela gave us a tour of her beloved church sanctuary, I left with a heart strangely warmed.  For though the Church of England is seeing a greater church decline than what we’re seeing in the USA, I left with high hopes for that little church with its small but faithful body.  Every day they gather to pray for the world, for each other, and for the Church.  And every day Jesus meets them there, in that sanctuary and on that Zoom screen…even with that one person in France.

You see, with all its scandals, failures, and political schemes, it is still a beautiful Church.  Be hopeful.  God is still here.

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Don’t stop meeting together with other believers, which some people have gotten into the habit of doing. Instead, encourage each other, especially as you see the day drawing near. -Hebrews 10:25 (CEB)

From where I sat in the back row, my children in tow, I could see the worship space clearly.  It’s not often I get to be a back-row pastor, but this was one of those days.  I had no official duties in worship leadership at my church, so I had the pleasure of simply worshipping God alongside the church family I have come to love.   

We all stood as the song began and I noticed Jimmy rising to his feet a couple rows away.  He was holding his two preschoolers - one on each arm, lifting them high so they could see the worship band on stage.  The children peeked at the stage but then snuggled in close, heads on Dad’s shoulders.  Those shoulders carried heavy stress in his weekday life, and I could see him let it go with a deep breath. Somehow the peace that settled on him settled on me as well.

I heard Melanie harmonizing with the worship leaders, and I realized she was just a few seats from me, across the aisle. She was sitting instead of standing as her usually hyperactive toddler slept in her arms.  Melanie’s beautiful voice carried across the aisle to me, a lullaby of love.

The couple a few rows in front of me stood straight and tense, shoulders bunched, elbows in, hands tightly clasped in front of them.  They had just dropped their child off at college for his freshmen year, and I said a prayer for the strangeness they must be feeling without their kid beside them.  Yet they were surrounded by friends, I saw, safely cocooned in this tender moment by the church family who would see them through.

My eyes fell on the visitor I met moments earlier, and I wondered what brought her to church.  There’s always a reason behind someone’s sudden solo appearance.  After all, it takes courage to worship among strangers.  Has there been grief in her life or new heights of stress?  Was there an accident or a diagnosis or a move or divorce?  Or perhaps Jesus was simply working on her heart, prompting her to seek him among his Body, the Church.  There’s no use wondering, I told myself.  She’ll eventually share her reasons, or she won’t.  But at present, she was there, with us; so I silently prayed she would find what she sought.

What am I seeking this morning? I wondered. The thought honestly startled me.  Glancing around at these people (my people - as I often describe them, either lovingly or with exasperation, depending on the moment) I realized I was seeking this.  This unique sense of connection that I can only find in communal worship.

The Apostle Paul coined a word for it.  He called it koinonia, and while we translate this word to “fellowship” or “communion” it means so much more.  Koinonia is a mutual belonging.  It is “community” in the truest, highest sense of the word.  It’s being connected to another through the bonds of Christ.  It’s being knit together into the same metaphorical body, so that you depend on, care for, and feel genuine affection for one another.

Koinonia was what I was seeking in that back row, and I marveled at its glorious oddness as I surveyed the people of God in worship.  Those of us in that room were not strangers, nor were we besties.  We weren’t all blood relatives, but we were a family of sorts.  All children of God, all brothers and sisters in Christ, all bound up together by the power of God’s presence among us.  It’s a mystical connection, this worshipping body.  This koinonia.  As we pray and sing and ponder the Scriptures together, the Holy Spirit unites us, knitting us together like tendons connect bones, loosely but securely tying us in a flexible yet lasting bond.

Sometimes it overwhelms me, this koinonia. Sometimes it manifests as a sudden deep love for these people who worship side by side with me each week.  Yes, even that person whose personality grates against the nerves.  Yes, even that person who does not vote the way I do.  These people in this community at this moment are a part of me and my connection to Jesus, and that’s an awesome, frightening feeling.  For to be connected in Koinonia is to be tied down, responsible to and for others.  I can’t just worship God alone week after week, because this church is my tether to the Spirit at work in the world.

But to be connected in koinonia is also to be set free.  For it means we’re in this mess of a world together.  It means the weight of living is a shared load. We do not face its trials alone. We face them with that dad swaying with his kids, with that mom singing her sacred lullaby, with that couple staring into the empty nest, with that visitor who needs God’s presence in koinonia just as much as I do.

The song came to an end and I realized I had stopped singing minutes before.  How marvelous, I thought, that the church kept singing when I stopped. Even when I lost myself in back-row theologizing, the church did not lose sight of me. Their singing carried me - wandering mind and all - into the mysterious presence of God. That’s the beauty of koinonia. Whether we know it or not, we’re always carrying each other to Jesus.

You see, with all its scandals, failures, and political schemes, it is still a beautiful Church.  Be hopeful.  God is still here.

I believe in the Holy Spirit, the holy catholic (universal) church, the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body, and the life everlasting.

The Apostles’ Creed

It was a cool morning in rural Kenya.  Back home in North Carolina, my family was surviving the swelter of July.  But it was winter here, so as I climbed out of our 10-passenger van, I relished the 60-degree mountain air of Kaene, a small village hidden in the foothills of Central Kenya.

I was with members of my church, a group of American United Methodists, visiting orphaned teenagers we partner with through Zoe Empowers.  Zoe is an organization that empowers orphaned teens to pull themselves and their younger siblings out of the cycle of poverty forever.  We were in Kenya to meet these incredible children, to hear their stories of struggle and triumph, to be inspired by their faith, and to cheer them on with all the love in our hearts.

Out of the van I had a better view of the stone church before me.  It stood tall and strong in a tidy clearing, neatly preserved from the creep of dense tropical forest on its periphery. But the bright green tree tops of the forest could not be ignored; reflecting boldly on the church’s windows against a soft gray winter sky.  The name of the church was printed on the building in a mixture of English and a language I did not recognize, along with the unfamiliar acronym AIPCA.  But the English subscript below it was unmistakable: “A House of Prayer for All Nations. (Isaiah 56:7)”

“What does AIPCA stand for?”  I asked the Zoe staffer who was accompanying us on this visit, a local to the area - as all Zoe staff are.

“It’s an African Pentecostal church,” he explained.  Later I looked up the exact acronym and discovered that this particular church is part of the African Independent Pentecostal Church, which launched out of the African Orthodox Church in Kenya in the 1920s. I still know very little about this denomination, but its history fascinates my nerdy pastor brain.  It was instrumental in the Kenyan freedom movement to gain independence from colonial rule.  In its DNA is a commitment to the spiritual and physical welfare of the Kenyan people.    

I knew none of this at the time, however. I simply knew I was standing on holy ground, and that even we - United Methodist mzungus from the USA - were part of the ALL NATIONS welcomed to pray and worship in this space.  So as I walked toward the church, the words of the Apostles’ Creed floated through my head: “I believe in the Holy Spirit, the holy catholic (universal) church, the communion of saints…”

Miriam1 was the first to greet me.  She was clearly the Mentor of the group, the local adult that each group of Zoe children selects to serve as their parental figure.  Miriam extended her hands toward me, and her warm brown eyes revealed a generous and kind heart.  I couldn’t place her age, but she was older than me, perhaps by a decade or so.  I reached her in a couple more steps and she clasped my outstretched hand with both of hers.

With heavily accented English she said, “Welcome! Welcome! I am Miriam.” 

Smiling back at her I tentatively said, “Thank you,” unsure of how much English she spoke, wanting her to lead the conversation so I wouldn’t leave her behind.  “My name is Laura, I am a Reverend.”

Her smile widened and her eyes lit up. She let go of me and, motioning toward the building I had just been studying, she said, “This is my church.” There was an unmistakable pride in her voice. We turned and took in the sight together.

This is my church.

Could she be the pastor, I wondered? She would not have been the first female pastor I met in Kenya. But she hurried off before I could ask, and the question was answered anyway when I entered the church and saw the pastor’s name and picture on a sign. He was very much a he - obviously not Miriam. So, a dedicated lay person, then, I thought. A matriarch of the church, I decided as I found my seat.

We circled up in metal chairs on the floor of the sanctuary, right in front of the steps leading up to the altar.  Gray light filtered through the windows, the only light to illuminate the teenagers who proudly shared what they have accomplished through the Zoe Empowers program - the farms they have planted and are harvesting, the businesses they have started and are growing, the stability and security they are building for themselves and their families.

We had spent the previous few days visiting other Zoe groups of orphaned teenagers, and the theme of their stories was becoming familiar to us.  Their lives had once been marked by food insecurity and lonely survival.  But no more. They had worked hard and trained well and learned a great deal. Now they were eating two, maybe three meals a day.  Now they had income and hope for the future. Now they had each other.  Now they had this sacred space to gather in, this community to count on, this circle of orphaned friends who would do anything for each other. Now they had a Mentor who loved them.

They called Miriam “Mum”, I learned, because that’s how she treated these children who were left without parents of their own.  She loved them with a mother’s heart, she loved them like her own.  Many villagers had been unkind to these orphaned children, they looked down upon them and treated them with contempt because they had to beg for meals, slinking from home to home for help.  But not Miriam.  Miriam was always kind to them, even before the Zoe program came to their village. Even before they had a hopeful future, Miriam was willing to care for them, doing whatever she could from her limited means. Miriam always saw them as beloved children of God.

This is my church, she had said, and I marveled at the generosity with which she gave her church to these children. Sure, she offered them the building as their safe haven, their gathering space, their empowerment launching pad.  But more than that, she was the church to them. She offered them her Christ-shaped heart and with it, her wider church family, a tradition of disciples who value the welfare of struggling people.  She offered them the love of Jesus that will never leave or forsake them.

The meeting adjourned and there was time for pictures - the children always wanted selfies and hugs, often at the same time.  This is my church, I thought with pride as I looked around at my traveling companions, members of the church I serve back home.  I watched them hug the teens with all their hearts, and I watched as they looked into the teens’ eyes and spoke the words every child longs to hear, “I’m so proud of you.”  I watched my people take the cue from Miriam and be the church, offering the love of Christ freely and lavishly to these children who have known too many love-lean years.

This is my church, my heart sang, and as I surveyed the brave, smart Zoe teens before me, I realized I was missing the obvious, most glorious truth hidden in the moment, hidden in their smiling faces. THIS is my church. There was no “my church” or “Miriam’s church” or “their church.” There was only the Church.  There was only us. The universal Church, the one that stretches across the boundaries of denominations and languages and social classes and theological differences.  The one that rallies around orphans and widows, the one that is bound together by the mysteriously unifying power of the Holy Spirit.

This is my Church. It is Kenyan Pentecostals and American United Methodists.  It is young and old, poor and wealthy, orphaned and widows, parents and adopted parents.  This is my Church. It is all of us, bound up together in the love of Jesus Christ and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit. And in that Kenyan Pentecostal sanctuary, the love of Christ bypassed every language barrier and theological nuance to communicate the only thing that truly needs to be said: You are mine, and I am yours, and we are God’s. Together.

We loaded into the vans and drove away, but before I said my goodbyes I pulled Miriam into a hug and scrambled for the right words. The ones that bubbled up were not nearly sufficient, but they were all I could muster at the time — “Thank you.”  Thank you for being their Mum, I meant.  But also, thank you for being the Church.  Thank you for reminding me what the Church is meant to be.

You see, with all its scandals, failures, and political schemes, it is still a beautiful Church.  Be hopeful.  God is still here.

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P.S. I’m back! I took the summer off from my usual writing rhythms, partly to travel (to Kenya and beyond!) and partly to be present with my family. I hope you had some adventures this summer too, as well as time for R&R. Now that summer is winding down I am getting back into the swing of writing and plan to continue sharing these monthly “hope letters” on the last Wednesday of every month.

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“Here.  See this?  This is no good.” Wesley1 spoke softly, in his heavily accented English, as if raising his voice would disturb the vibrant garden blooming around us.  With practiced movements, he reached out and removed what I later learned was called a “sucker” from the tomato vine before us.  “This will limit the harvest,” he explained, then motioned for me to find and remove the next one. 

“Here?” I asked. At his nod, and with no small sense of satisfaction, I removed the sucker myself.  For the next 20 minutes, we worked on the tomatoes side by side as he told me about the life he left behind in the Congo, the garden he loved, the family he missed, and the life he was creating here.  He moved to the States to follow his wife, a fellow seminary student and intern at this very church, the one I could see across the field from where we stood.  

This is how I learned to garden.  Rather, this is how Wesley taught me to garden - in the field of the rural church where I worked as an intern, in the heat of the summer. Between learning how to lead Bible studies and how to facilitate church meetings, I learned what a cucumber plant looks like, when to harvest lettuce, and that tomatoes taste best right off the vine.  This summer was over a decade ago and I can still remember the cadence of Wesley’s voice, the smell of the plants, and the sound of children playing on the nearby playground.

That summer, Wesley practically lived in the garden.  He gave hours and hours to weeding and planting and harvesting and preparing beds and troubleshooting blight.  And all the while, he taught people like me - with no green thumb in sight - that gardening is not just a hobby or a way to enjoy fresh produce, it is a way to connect with the humanity in each other.  More than that, or perhaps because of that, gardening is a way to connect with the Divine.

For there, in the church garden, it didn’t matter what nationality we claimed, what our bank accounts held, or even what theologies we believed.  What mattered was the earth and the rain and the sun and our collective responsibility to care for it well, side by side by side.  What mattered was that God had created all of this, that God’s gardening hand was evident in the new life bursting forth, that God’s whispers could be heard in the rustling leaves and the buzzing bees and the butterflies swooping past.

Standing in that church garden I glimpsed the Kingdom of God, like a fresh sprout bursting from tilled soil, growing alongside the tomatoes and our friendship and our sense of awe at how glorious is this earth we have inherited. How glorious the God who made it all. 

It’s remarkable, looking back, that I learned how to pastor and garden at the same time.  This juxtaposition helped me see the Church as a Garden, as a living, vibrant, and diverse ecosystem, whose fruit is for the benefit of the world.

Have you ever noticed that the story of Scripture begins and ends in a garden?  From those early days of perfect harmony in Eden2 to the final promised days of harmony in a new Heaven and a new Earth,3 God’s garden is at the center of it all.  It was in the garden where humanity’s greatest failure disrupted the harmony of God’s creation.4  It was in a garden where Jesus resisted the human kryptonite that once ruined everything.5  It was in a garden where the Light of the World was buried,6 and it was in a garden where Resurrection Life burst forth.7  In fact, on that first Easter Sunday Mary Magdalene even thought Jesus was the Gardener;8 which of course, he is.  Jesus is the Gardener of the Kingdom of God, which is sprouting up all around us, God’s new life growing in the cracks and fields and walls of this world.

To say that the Church is a Garden is therefore not a theological stretch.  For we are the Garden that our Gardener is pruning and planting and harvesting and watering and fertilizing and tenderly, patiently tending.  We the Church are a part of this great Garden Kingdom. We the Church are the sprouts and the vines and the flowers that are meant to reveal God’s goodness and beauty to the world.

Recently I attended the spring opening for the community garden of the church I now serve.  I stood on that newly turned soil, buds of green poking up from the beds around me, and I remembered those long-ago summer days in the church garden with Wesley.  I remembered the feel of the soil, the knowledge I was eager to gain, the camaraderie I found when we church folks worked and harvested and weeded and laughed side by side.  I remembered the mystical awareness of the Kingdom of God I discovered within that garden’s boundaries, so that stepping through the gate was like stepping into another world, a world whose goodness I could taste and touch and smell.

There is much to love about my present church’s community garden.  Top of the list is their generosity, for they give away the bulk of their harvest to food banks so all may have access to the nutritious bounty the earth provides.

But the less obvious beauty of this particular garden is its mission to be a COMMUNITY garden. It is not only church members who work the earth, weed the beds, monitor the compost, and tend the bees.  It’s a team of people from all walks of life, with different religions, and cultures, and political ideologies, representing a vast world and an even vaster God.

In the center of our community garden stands a pole with the words “May Peace Prevail on Earth” recorded in a variety of languages.  I stood before it, scanning the words and letters, most of which I could not read, and thought of that promise in Revelation, the one that says in the final days when God will restore harmony and peace to the earth, God will create a city of gardens.  And in the center of that city-garden will flow a river flanked by trees.  The leaves of these trees will be for the healing of the nations.9  The various splinters of people across the earth will one day be united with love and purpose and enjoyment in God’s heavenly garden.  That’s when the Kingdom of God will be fully manifest, fully present, fully alive.

It was easy to picture that Revelation promise as I stood in the center of the church garden, awash in the sun and the buzzing bees and the murmur of voices representing a diverse people united for the common good.  The fruits of these labors are for the healing of the world.

That’s the Church that God the Gardener is growing all around us.  That is the Church God is pruning and fertilizing and tending us to become.  A beautiful, vibrant, and diverse ecosystem, whose fruit is given for the healing of the world.

You see, with all its scandals, failures, and political schemes, it is still a beautiful Church.  Be hopeful.  God is still here.

Much has been written and will continue to be written about Christian leadership, about trust and betrayal and our human propensity to make colossal mistakes, especially when bearing the weight of power and popularity on our shoulders.  I have no wish to contribute to that particular conversation at this particular time, though I know it is the direction most conversations veer once these sorts of scandals are uncovered.  While such conversations are important, it’s simply not where my attention is being drawn these days as I look for the beauty of the Church amid its scandals.

Rather, I’ve been thinking about Dalia1, who comes to church every Monday morning to claim the altar flowers left over from Sunday’s worship.  She takes apart the gorgeous arrangements and rearranges them into lovely, personal-sized replicas in vases she’s collected over the years.  She then hand-delivers these flowers to anybody in the church needing cheer.  A recently bereaved family.  A widow on her birthday.  A friend in the hospital, or one recovering from surgery, or another just because.

Thinking about Dalia makes me think about Juliette, who washes all the linens we use on Communion Sundays.  She buys the bread and stocks the fridge with juice and makes sure there are gluten-free wafers aplenty so all can partake.

Thinking about Juliette makes me think about Sarah and Dominic, who decorate the worship space week in and week out to make it feel welcoming and vibrant.

Thinking about Sarah and Dominic makes me think about Jerrold, who stands at the front door on Sunday mornings to ensure every individual who enters our space is treated as the most honored of guests, VIPs he is delighted to see, whether he knows them or not.

Thinking about all these incredible people - the quiet witness of the Church being the Church - makes me think about you. And I’ve been thinking about you, dear readers, quite a bit over the last couple of weeks. You, who have been disappointed by the Church, no doubt. You, who might have once experienced the shock and dismay and anger that some in my circles are feeling in the wake of scandal. What balm might I offer for our collective heartache?  How might I help you remember the Church’s worthiness amid its messiness? 

I have been scanning the tapestry of my ministry for a larger-than-life picture that might indisputably defend the Church’s beauty, despite its obvious and painful shortcomings.  But I’ve realized there is no such thing. There is no single image that can capture the resilient beauty of the Church. 

Instead, there are only snapshots of beauty, flashes of glory. And my mind has lingered upon them, beholding a myriad of people whose labors on behalf of the Church are nearly invisible, yet whose devotion and love and dedication are like pieces of a puzzle. When fit together just so they become the most breathtaking of masterpieces. They become the beauty that inspires me to write. They become the movement I love to lead.

It’s the Reggies, who sit with a grieving friend week after week so he doesn’t grieve alone.  It’s the Natalies, who pray for any and every need brought to her attention.  It’s the Kamilas, who deliver meals to new moms and post-surgery widowers and families needing an extra layer of support.  It’s in their lives and their ministry and their steady faithfulness that I find the breathtaking beauty of the Church.  

For when the leaders fail - and we always do, on some level or another - it’s the collective witness of the people that tells the real story, the story of Christ’s hands and feet and knees and elbows and eyes and ears loving the world with transformative grace, being the Church that we leaders long for and desperately need.

My mind was swirling with the faces and stories of the ordinary saints in my life when I stepped onto the prayer labyrinth tucked beside our historic sanctuary.  The church I serve has been on our property for over 100 years, and while the prayer labyrinth is a new addition, it sits upon a sacred space where Christians have gathered to meet God for generations.

I slipped off my shoes and stepped barefoot onto the winding path before me, looking for a connection with God, looking for a glimmer of the Church’s beauty amid my disappointment.  Around the third or fourth curve, my awareness shifted from the warmth of the tiles under my bare feet and the cold ache in my heart to something else.  It wasn’t the presence of the Holy Spirit that grabbed my attention, though I’m confident the Spirit was swirling around me, guiding my steps.  This was a different kind of presence, a presence of memory.  A collective memory of people I’ve never met.  People who have walked this sacred swath of earth for decades before me, who hallowed this particular patch of ground upon which I stood. 

In my mind’s eye, I saw a great many faithful feet walking the way of prayer with me.  In my imagination, I wondered at the disappointment they surely carried in the Church, and I marveled at their determination to be faithful to its call, despite it all.  I felt the love with which they lived and ministered, the hope they passed on through the generations, heart to heart to heart, resting now in the hearts of the people I know and love in these pews.  

Leaving the prayer labyrinth that afternoon, I was certain of one thing.  The church I serve has not been here for more than a century because of its leaders’ successes or failures; it’s here because Jesus is living in and working through its people.  

The truth is, we’re all faulty vessels through which God shares light and love with the world.  Sometimes we crack, and some cracks are bigger than others, some are more public, and when leaders are involved, some are devastating.  But I do not despair.

Because Dalia will keep delivering her flowers.

Kamila will keep sharing nutritious meals full of love.

Gus will keep facilitating the support group for folks struggling with mental health.

The choir will keep singing.

Juliette will keep washing the linens, and Natalie will keep praying.

Melody will keep raising awareness about social injustices.

Tony will keep shepherding his aging Sunday School class, and Alice will keep growing produce to provide fresh vegetables for local food banks.

These ordinary Holy Spirit-inspired people remind me that, even when we leaders stumble, God is quietly, faithfully, unwaveringly carrying on the ministry of Jesus through the imperfect, humble offerings of Christ’s body, the Church, whom I can’t help but love.

O for a thousand tongues to sing my great Redeemer’s praise, the glories of my God and King, the triumphs of his grace!

-Charles Wesley, O For A Thousand Tongues to Sing, United Methodist Hymnal #57

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“Music,” she mused, gently shaking my hand as she filed out of the sanctuary after worship.  There was such a long pause that I wondered if she would stop at that one word; but no, she was thinking, searching for the exact language to say what she needed to say.  “Music,” she repeated with a firm nod, “is God’s gift to me.  I needed that.”

The that she referred to was the cantata our choir had finished moments before on this particular Palm Sunday.  It was a beautiful cantata, complete with an orchestra, soaring soloists, and a passionate choir. The music ushered us through Christ’s story and dismissed us on just the right note to observe the profound sanctity of Holy Week.

Another person - a newcomer - shook my hand, pausing to stand before me on their way out the sanctuary door, and said, “I’ll admit, I was disappointed when I first saw in the bulletin that there wouldn’t be a sermon.  But now I understand why.  The music said it all.”

The music said all that could be said in his tiny hospital room.  

     “My hope is built on nothing less 
     than Jesus’ blood and righteousness...”

Quietly I crooned the song like a lullaby over the cancer-riddled baby asleep in my arms.  I was keeping vigil while his parents grabbed a bite to eat.  The song popped into my head unbidden, leftover from Sunday’s service when my church had lustily sung the beloved words1:

     “On Christ the solid rock I stand,
     all other ground is sinking sand;
     all other ground is sinking sand.”

The Church was carrying the tune in my head as I relayed the song’s promise to my sick and sleeping infant friend.  The ground upon which I stood sure felt like it was sinking, knowing that this child would likely never see his first birthday.   So I let the Church’s hymn and the memory of their sure, strong voices lay a foundation upon which I could stand, upon which I could pace about the room and gently rock the child with all the love and faith in my heart.  

I had no words to offer, none sufficient for the moment, but the Church did.  So I let the music say it all.

Recently my husband and I were on a road trip with miles to go, hours to fill.  Being the one in the passenger seat with the power of Apple Music at my fingertips, I made a playlist entitled “Spiritual Comfort Food,” and I populated it with songs that buoy my faith.  Some of these songs had lasting appeal from my youth while others were meaningful because they brought to mind powerful moments in worship with this or that community.  

As the songs played one after another, we realized each song had a story.  I sang this song on a Greek mountaintop with my best friend.  My husband learned to play that song on his guitar from his youth pastor.  We sang this song in college when we had informal worship services in our living room.  That song I learned at church and it helped me through a rough patch, while this hymn helped me discern the call to be a pastor.  As we logged the miles on I-95 we listened and sang along to these sacred songs that are so much more than songs.  They are poems and promises and faith proclaimed.  They represent turning points and low points and points of contact with the Almighty that forever changed our lives.  They are the soundtrack of our faith, and also so much more.  The musical power they carry is the refrain of the Church, saying, expressing, proclaiming what mere words cannot convey. 

It’s why I lean into congregational singing during Holy Weeks such as this one.  Isaac Watts’ When I Survey the Wondrous Cross preaches better than any Good Friday sermon I’ve ever heard.  Charles Wesley’s Christ the Lord is Risen Today, when sung lustily by a celebratory congregation, might be the most powerful Easter proclamation there is.  When words reach their natural limit before profound mystery, music says the rest.  

There is something about congregational singing that simply cannot be replicated.  Sure, it’s a heady feeling at a concert when everyone sings along to your favorite song by your favorite band.  But even that exhilarating moment can’t compare to the power of the Church singing together.  That’s because sacred music is an invitation to the community’s encounter with the Divine.  Singing together is a form of communal prayer.  It can be a plea, or a praise, or a proclamation, or a lament, or any and all of the above.  Singing sacred music together allows us to express emotions and feelings and theologies that are too deep for words.  It allows our hearts to disconnect from our thoughts long enough to seek the heart and mind and presence of God.

And more than that, singing together as the Body of Christ allows us to lean on one another, to be carried into God’s presence when our legs are too weak or afraid or weary to get there alone.  When we sing with the Church, when we allow the Church to sing for us, it’s like we’re scooped up into their arms of grace and carried to God as surely as I rocked my dying infant friend into the loving presence of Christ.

Music says it all.  When we have nothing left to say, the Church’s music sings the rest for us.

The pews of the sanctuary were packed, standing room only, as we gathered to remember and celebrate the life of my precious baby friend who passed into eternal life too soon, too young.  The music began, a trio of musicians leading from the front, and my heart stopped when my non-musical brain finally registered the lyrics projected on the screen before me.  They were the same words I sang in that hospital room weeks before, cradling his precious body and willing him to know in his subconscious baby brain the love and hope of Christ.  

The Church began to sing and I choked.  Rather, I croaked as I tried to sing along.  I couldn’t do it.  The words were stuck in my throat and it was all I could to do breathe, to let the lyrics wash over me as I remembered my little friend’s angelic face, as I remembered his parents in their grief and sorrow, as I tried to hold fast to the hope that I once sang for them all.  So I let the Church sing it over me, a lullaby, a promise, a proclamation.  I let the Church say what I couldn’t.

     “When darkness veils his lovely face, 
     I rest on his unchanging grace,
     In every high and stormy gale,
     my anchor holds within the veil.”

The music said it all.  It was one of the most heartbreaking and hallowed moments of my life - when the Church, through its sacred music, through its voices joined together in faith and hope and love, sang all that I couldn’t say, all that needed to be said. 

You see, with all its scandals, failures, and political schemes, it is still a beautiful Church.  Be hopeful.  God is still here.

The door to the hospital room cracks open after a gentle knock.  I am sitting beside Alice’s hospital bed while her husband George leans against the windowsill.  Alice is dozing in the afternoon sun.  I watch as the door opens wide and a young woman in scrubs breezes into the cozy room with a sunny smile.    

 “Here’s our nurse, Emma,” George says to me, beginning the introductions.  He turns to Emma, motions in my general direction, and says, “This is our minister, Laura.”1

I hold my breath.  An introduction like this can veer in several different directions, and alas, many of these detours are less than pleasant.  

Sometimes, an Emma - meaning any young professional in a non-religious setting - takes exception to my very obvious femaleness and says something along the lines of, “Oh, I’ve never met one of you before.”  The disdain in these situations drips from the words and leaves a puddle of discomfort for anyone to slip on.

Sometimes, an Emma in a situation such as this might happen to be a very religious person, and usually, such an Emma assumes that I ascribe to her particular brand of church or theology, so she’ll launch into a diatribe about God’s will or her deep concern for our once-religious nation or her hopes that this or that political figure will save us from our demise.  I rarely agree with the Emmas of this variety, and have to remind myself that I’m not here to debate, I’m here to visit my parishioner.  It gets fairly awkward, fairly quickly.

Sometimes, an Emma in this type of situation will end up being hostile to religion at large, and her cold aloofness will frost up the room like a walk-in refrigerator.  This kind of Emma quickly fulfills her medical duties and hightails it out of the room with a shiver, as if she’ll get frostbite by staying one moment longer.

So when George introduces me as his minister, I brace myself and watch for Emma’s reaction.  But she only smiles her radiant smile at me - a good sign, I tell myself.  Still, I don’t relax just yet, not even as she logs into the computer in the room and starts typing whatever nursing knowledge needs to be recorded. 

It’s a good thing I don’t let my guard down completely, for soon her eyes dart to mine, and she looks at me with what appears to be genuine curiosity as she asks, “And, what religion are you?”

This is a new one.  Granted, I am in street clothes.  United Methodist clergy rarely wear the clerical collars that our Episcopal, AME, Catholic, and Lutheran colleagues sport.  I am wearing the stereotypical millennial mom outfit of skinny jeans and a floral tunic, so the kind of religion I claim is not obvious.

“I’m a United Methodist pastor,” I explain.

“Oh,” she says, nodding.  Then she pauses and stumbles a bit asking the next question, “And what kind of religion is that?”

This is a new one, too.  Being so immersed in the Church world, I sometimes forget that we mainline denominations are not the center of most people’s worlds, especially young people.  It’s a good reminder for me, and one I try to take in stride, even as my heart twinges a bit with grief at the Church’s irrelevancy.

“It’s Christian,” I explain.

Her eyes light up.  “Oh!”  Emma takes Alice’s blood pressure and fiddles with one of the machines Alice is hooked up to for a minute before she says, “I’m reading the Bible, you know.”

Yep, definitely a new one.  

“Oh?” I ask, using that very pastor-like tone I’ve perfected over the years, the one that invites people to say more without actually revealing my thoughts or feelings on the matter.

“Yeah.  I grew up Pentecostal but…I drifted away from it years ago.” She shrugs, and I can tell there’s a story there, one that left some still-healing wounds.  “But in the last couple of months,” she tells me, “I thought, why can’t I just read this thing for myself?  So I started reading.”

I nod, giving her an encouraging smile, trying to be respectful of the ecclesial pain I glimpsed in her eyes, careful not to push past her comfort zone, allowing her to lead the conversation. 

“Someone told me to start with the Gospel of John,” she continues, “and I just got so confused.”

“Yeah, John can be a bit confusing,” I assure her.

This is when George, who had been silently observing the conversation, pipes in.  “I always liked Luke,” he says, “it’s my favorite.”  

Suddenly the feel in the room starts to shift.  It’s becoming spiritually charged, vibrant with possibility, attuned to the swirling, mysterious, grace-filled presence of God.  This isn’t just a normal hospital visit, I say to myself, to God.  What are you up to here, Lord?  

Maybe all Emma needs is a bit of encouragement, I think.  Maybe I can pastor Emma while I pastor Alice and George in one fell swoop.

So, nodding to George’s comment, I add, “Me too.  Luke’s a really good one to start with.”  

“Well,” Emma continues, brushing off our commentary, “I decided to start at the beginning.”  

There is a beat of silence as George and I take in this information.  

“Like at Genesis?” he asks.

“Oh yeah,” she nods.  I inwardly cringe.  When people start at the beginning, they usually make it through Genesis and Exodus and then call it quits at Leviticus with its cumbersome record of laws.  Better to start at the Gospels, I think, and am about to say so when Emma keeps talking.  “It’s interesting, Genesis is.  Like I’m seeing where all the bad in the world comes from, you know?”

George and I nod.  Yeah, we know.  Ticking her fingers off one by one, she names aloud the evil found in the dramatic stories of Genesis: murder, incest, rape, theft, betrayal…

“It’s all there, isn’t it?” I ask rhetorically, while inwardly praying, God, what in the world are you expecting from me here?  

But in the next moment, I realize God isn’t expecting much from me at all.  I am just an accessory and George is about to be the real hero of this encounter.

Emma’s brows furrow and she huffs a big sigh, shoulders slumping as she says, “But you know, I don’t get a lot of it.  So much doesn’t make sense.  I get confused.  It’s maddening.”

I am about to commiserate, about to encourage her to not give up, but before I can say a word George speaks.

“You know,” he says, with so much conviction that I give him my full attention.  “I used to feel the same way.  But at our church, we have this Bible study class that takes you through the whole Bible, and you read little snippets of each book and talk about it with each other.”  He shrugs.  “It helped me get it.  The group of people in that class - they helped me get it.”

Rarely do I have a front-row seat to this kind of encounter, when a parishioner describes to a non-churchgoer why the church matters to them.  Rarely do I hear someone explain so readily why the community of believers called “Church” matters.  I listen with rapt attention as George talks about this small group of ordinary (non-pastor) people who read and discuss and research and question and learn to understand the sacred, maddening, beautiful Bible together.  That community is what makes all the difference to him.  That body of believers, that subset of the Body of Christ in our particular church - they are what keeps him going. The Church doing what the Church does best is what helps him “get” it.

Later that afternoon I will drive home from the hospital and be awestruck at the beauty of the Church, despite its cultural irrelevance to my generation and younger.  I will marvel at George’s simple testimony of why the Church matters. I will give thanks for that group of thoughtful, compassionate people who help one another understand life in light of Scripture. Who wrestle with Scripture’s maddening, confusing, and life-giving words to uncover the truth about a God whose ways of love are mysterious and grand and ever-present to those with eyes of faith.  

But for now, I watch in fascination as George subtly invites Emma to re-imagine the Church, to see it as a safe space to bring her questions and doubts and longing to understand the Bible.  Where she can find a community of people who don’t claim to know all the answers, but who will walk with her on the journey of “getting it”, no matter what mountains, hills, or valleys lay ahead.  Because when the Church is at its best, it doesn’t matter if you arrive at the same conclusion or the same interpretation as the person next to you.  It’s not about the knowing, it’s about the seeking.  It’s not about the arriving, it’s about the journey - together.

There is a sudden seriousness on Emma’s face as she pauses to consider George’s words, as if they strike an unexpected chord in her heart.  I can see the thoughtfulness in her gentle nod, the wistfulness in her eyes as she considers the possibility that such a community might exist.  She finishes her work and I silently pray: Jesus, lead this gentle, questing soul to a church home. To the community she so clearly longs for, where she can seek and ask, discuss and share.  Where she can find the truth, where she can find herself, where she can belong in your love.  

She packs her things and readies to leave, but I realize I have a burning need to impart one last word of wisdom so she will not despair in her quest to read the Bible, to seek God…alone.  

“Emma,” I say, as she reaches for the door handle.  She turns to look at me, that sunny smile back on her face, and I say, “When you get to Leviticus, skim it.  Nobody needs to read Leviticus alone.”

She gives me a puzzled look and agrees to do so, slipping out into the hallway and onto her next patient.  She clearly has no idea what Leviticus holds for her.  Maybe she’ll skim it, or maybe reading it will send her to a church, to find a Bible study, a community, like the one George described.   

Maybe this is what God had in mind for this visit all along, for Emma to glimpse the beauty of what the Church can be, to give her the courage to try Church again, one day.  And maybe God intended for George, Alice, and me to remember this wondrous gift we get to behold, this gift we get to offer the world: the gift of seeking and finding the Lord…together.

You see, with all its scandals, failures, and political schemes, it is still a beautiful Church.  Be hopeful.  God is still here.

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United Methodist readers, this is especially for you. The details are below….

To you lovely readers who are not part of the UMC, you might find this new Substack interesting (check it out below), but I won’t harbor any hard feelings if you don’t. You’ll hear from me again in a couple of weeks with the next Still a Beautiful Church Hope-Letter!

Introducing: And Can It Be? Re-meandering United Methodism

So, you’re wondering, what is this new Substack all about? Twice a month Jared and I will be sharing letters about our dreams and hopes for the future of The United Methodist Church. After all, it’s been a … season …. amiright? We’ve endured conflicts and disaffiliations and across-the-board restructuring and now we’re preparing for a General Conference, and whew. Now is a fitting time to pause, to breathe, to imagine a future with hope. With this Substack, we want to create a space on the interwebs where we can constructively and collectively dream about what could be for this Church in which we serve, this Church we love.

Below is a little preview from the About section, and here is a link to the first letter entitled “Imagining Our Future Into Existence.”

"Today the United Methodist Church is experiencing its own Great Reformation, finding itself in the crucible of denominational schism, aging congregations, and shifting cultural forces.

Could it be, however, that this is also a time in which the conditions are ‘just right’ for new life to emerge? Could this be one of those Yellowstone, kairos moments that is waiting for someone to get the proverbial pebble moving, who will re-introduce that which has been lost and is willing to do the long, slow, difficult work of re-meandering the Church in order for new life to flourish once more?"

I hope you’ll join us in this conversation!

“Anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it.” - Mark 10:15 (NIV)

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She stood on tiptoes, chubby toddler legs straining to peer over the ornately carved baptismal font.  Her fingers stubbornly gripped the edges of the bowl as if bracing herself, preventing anyone from dragging her off this sacred perch. 

My pastoral colleague was the officiant of this baptism so I relaxed into my chair in the chancel, enjoying my front-row seat.  

“Through the Sacrament of Baptism we are initiated into Christ’s holy church,” my colleague proclaimed as she recited the familiar baptismal liturgy.  “We are incorporated into God’s mighty acts of salvation and given new birth through water and the Spirit.”1

We were baptizing the little girl’s infant brother, and while he cooed quietly she paid him no mind.  Instead, her attention was fixed on the pastor, whose recitations of the liturgy reminded the gathered church body that none of this grace is earned, that all of us come to the baptismal font and the salvation it reveals as helpless as the baby, as reliant as the girl:

“All this is God’s gift, offered to us without price.”

Face aglow with wonder, the girl watched the pastor lift the crystal pitcher and slowly pour the baptismal water into the font.  The sparkling water cascaded across her line of sight, splashing grace upon grace onto her hair, her cheeks, her hands, her dress.  She darted pudgy fingers into the font, a stolen touch of the holy water.  None protested and none recoiled when her fingers dipped below the surface.  How could anyone fault her exuberant, dogged reach for grace?

My mind automatically recited Jesus’ words, “Truly I tell you, anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it.”2  When the disciples wanted to stand like bodyguards between Jesus and the village children, Jesus indignantly rebuked them and insisted that they must emulate the unrestrained, unrefined, reaching, grasping, curious faith of a child.

I had never seen someone grip the baptismal font like it held the treasures of the world, as this girl did.  I had never seen someone so enamored with the splash of its water, the way it glimmered under the light.  I had never seen someone so eager to feel it, to touch it, to soak in it and the mysteries it held.

At a child’s baptism in the United Methodist Church, the pastor asks the parent(s) to promise to raise the child in the faith and asks the gathered church family to do the same: “Will you nurture one another in the Christian faith and life and include this child now before you in your care?”  The adults in the pews answered in the affirmative and I wondered if the question shouldn’t be asked the other way around.  

Will we let this baby boy teach us about the Christian faith and life?  Will we let his sister lead us into the mysteries of the Kingdom of God?  

That’s part of the hidden beauty of the Church, after all.  Where else do meaningful intergenerational conversations happen about God and faith and the mess of life and the power of love?  Where else does a toddler’s holy wonder inspire 200 adults lucky enough to witness it?  Where else is the youngest, most powerless member of the community as likely to be a sage as the oldest, wealthiest, and most esteemed?

When the Church is at its best, children are pioneers of faith.  They lead adults into creativity and playfulness, connecting us with the creative and playful Spirit at work within us.  They lead adults into joy and gratitude and trust, teaching us the simple truth that a profound faith need not be complicated.  

The Church is beautiful because children make it so.  They slip their small hands into ours and tug us onward into the beautiful Kingdom of God.

As the church spoke the final words of the baptismal liturgy, my eyes scanned the people packed into the pews.  I saw gray hairs and wiggly toddlers, teenagers and tired parents.  I saw empty nesters and snuggly infants and I was overcome with gratitude.  “Through baptism we are incorporated by the Holy Spirit into God’s new creation,” we proclaimed, and I felt this holy newness welling up within me: a new glimpse of God’s Kingdom, a new appreciation for the Church, a new sense of wonder at the grace of God offered without price.  “With joy and thanksgiving we welcome you as a member of the family of Christ.”  

I wiped the water gathering in my eyes, overcome by the mysteries of God revealed through this little girl, awed by the glory that glowed through her childlike faith, and grateful for a church that received her revelation with open hearts.

You see, with all its scandals, failures, and political schemes, it is still a beautiful Church.  Be hopeful.  God is still here.

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